


Nothin' but Blue Skies

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asshole Matt Daehler, Big Damn Heroes, Canon-Typical Violence, Fighter Pilots, Harvestfest, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Character Death, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Photographer Derek, Star-crossed, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott McCall, "Stiles" Stilinski, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey, and Jackson Whittemore are the hot-shot pilots of the USAAF's Flight Five, based out of southern England in the end of 1943. The tide is maybe starting to turn in the war, but there's still so many battles left to fight, so many bombs to drop, so many missions to run. </p>
<p>Up-and-coming young photographer Derek Hale of Life Magazine is sent out to do his first war coverage: interviews with and photographs of the brave young men of Alpha Squadron, Flight Five. It's supposed to be an easy assignment- snap some photos of the boys and their planes, and go home. </p>
<p>But when you're in the heat of the moment, when you're faced with life and death, who's got your back? Who is in that moment with you? When you start to ask that question, it's after that when nothing is easy again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperfluousEmi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperfluousEmi/gifts).



> To the giftees: I hope you like this story! :)
> 
> I'll own up front that I didn't research this one as thoroughly as I usually do my historical fics, and honestly, I know fuck-all about planes, so. If you come across an error, please excuse it in the reading, and then let me know, so that I can fix it. Thanks! Also, see the end notes for all the really neat stuff that I *did* turn up while researching this fic! 
> 
> With regard to warnings/triggers, they are mostly covered in the tags- there is some shade thrown at being gay, because 1943 (though apparently a good portion of the military was willing to overlook a WHOLE lot, because well, they needed everyone they could get, and also the US didn't get truly conservative till the 50s), and there's a bit of casual sexism (though I think very little, really). Daehler is a creeper, as is canon, and also there's brief previous mention of Kate/Derek, but it's really *very* brief. There is one secondary character death: if you're concerned about who it is, I've put it in the end notes for the fic, so you can skip down to them and see how you feel. Oh, and there's lots of swearing. 
> 
> If you come across anything you think I should warn for but didn't, please let me know!
> 
> Many thanks to @emmessann, @the_deep_magic, and @lousy_science for the betas, and to @painted_recs for letting me whine at her, as per usual. <3

"Colonel Argent, sir?"  

A tall, busy-looking man turns at the address, lean with greying blond hair and an air of       command. He's handsome, Derek thinks absently, resisting the urge to line up a shot with the Contax camera around his neck, authoritative in his pressed uniform and carefully situated hat.

"Yes, Lieutenant? What can I do for you?"

"Sir, this is the reporter they sent. Mr..."

"Hale. Derek Hale." Derek steps smoothly forward and reaches out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Colonel Argent grasps his fingers and gives a firm,  perfunctory, shake.

“Welcome, Mr.Hale.” The Colonel nods briefly. “I hear you've come to take some pictures.”

“Yes, sir. Life Magazine sent me over. They’re wanting a profile of our boys in action, something to show the folks at home what these fliers we hear so much about are like one-on-one.” Derek trots out his most charming smile, “give them something to talk about.”

“Well, son, you’ve come to the right place.” Argent claps a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that would seem friendly, if his eyes weren’t still dissecting every piece of Derek’s being. This is a man, Derek thinks, who’s been in command for a long time, is good at his job, and knows it. “Greenberg, come here.”

A rather hapless looking private stumbles over, only just managing to not trip over a boot lace as he hustles across the pavement. Argent carefully doesn’t make any expression as the boy pulls to a stop in front of him and salutes, boot lace still dangling; he  simply looks at the offending item until Greenberg flushes red and bends to tie it, then straightens back up, trousers wrinkled and face flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take this gentleman to Lieutenant Parrish. Tell him that Mr. Hale here is to have free access to all barracks, personnel, and equipment, provided that he is accompanied at all times by a guide. We want him to have the access he needs to show America how proud we are of our men in the skies.”

Greenberg swallows and salutes. “Yessir, I will sir.”

“See that you do.” Argent turns back to Derek, pinning him with a gaze that makes him want to squirm. “Hale, if you need anything, you speak to Parrish. He’ll get you straightened out.”

“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.” Derek shakes his hand again, and then they are clearly dismissed as Col. Argent strides off toward the runways, lower-ranked men scrambling to attention as he stalks past.

“Sir, if you just want to come this way?”

Greenberg looks vaguely, well, green around the gills, and Derek can’t even begin to imagine him in a plane. _Hopefully they’re not all like this_ , he thinks, forcing a polite smile at the harried private.

“After you, of course,” he says, and Greenberg grimaces in what might be an expression of camaraderie before he shuffles off, Derek close behind.

\--

The barracks are long and low, slung out across the open ground like a child’s blocks lined up to play toy soldiers. As they walk past the first building, Derek can see a glimpse of the runways just beyond the buildings, flat and tan-colored in the midday sun. It’s unseasonably warm for the south of England in October, or so he was told on his flight over. He thinks it must be true; he can feel a bead of sweat making its leisurely way down between his shoulder blades as they walk across the bare tarmac, heat shining down from the sky to be reflected back up from the relentless concrete.

Greenberg brings him to the third building on their right, a two-story affair that looks like it’s half medical center, half administration, all wooden siding and wide front steps. The door swings open silently (no squeaky hinges on Argent’s base, Derek thinks), and Greenberg ushers Derek inside to a small front room with a wide wooden desk near the back. Behind the desk sits an officer who lifts his head and smiles broadly as they enter.

“Hello! You must be the photog.” The officer sets aside his pen, and closes up the book in which he’d been making notations as they entered. “Colonel Argent says you’ll be staying with us?”

“Yes,” Derek replies cautiously, “Lieutenant Parrish?”

“Yes sir, that’s me!” The man in front of him must be around his age; they’re of a height, both around six feet, and both broad through the shoulders and narrow through the waist, but the similarities end there. Where Derek is dark and pale, black-haired and hazel eyed, Parrish is chestnut haired and golden complected, sunny and warm in his perfectly pressed uniform jacket. His smile is all straight white teeth, and it’s a wonder that Laura hasn’t mentioned him once in her letters, Derek thinks. “Let’s see here, we don’t really have a guest house as such, but D Barracks has an open bed. Do you know how long you’ll be?” Parrish’s face is almost painfully friendly, and Derek would dislike him on principle if it were even possible.

“I don’t expect to be more than a week.” Derek shrugs, “I just need to take some pictures, do some interviews. I have to be back stateside by next Wednesday.”

Parrish nods understandingly. “C’mon.” He stands up and strides out from behind the desk, clapping a hand to Greenberg’s shoulder that makes the smaller man stagger. “Let’s get you set up.”

“Lieutenant Parrish, sir, Colonel Argent says that he’s to have access to all personnel, barracks, and…”

“Equipment,” Derek supplies, his mind already on the planes out back that he hasn’t seen, but knows must be there. His index finger twitches at the thought of framing them in his lens, capturing their negatives on his film.

“Right, equipment,” Greenberg shoots him a relieved glance, and Derek grits his teeth. “...provided that he’s accompanied at all times by a guide.”

Parrish nods easily, reaching around a door in the back of the room to grab what looks like a set of sheets, a blanket, and a towel.

“Sure, that’s fine. Flight Five’s in Barracks D; they can trade off showing him around.” Parrish opens the door and gestures them both through. “Greenberg, you’re dismissed. Carry on!” Greenberg snaps a salute, and shuffles off down the walk, and Parrish tips his head the other direction with a grin. “Come on, Hale. I’ll get you checked in.”

\--

The barracks are empty when they enter, and Derek’s curiosity at the lack of personnel must show on his face, because Parrish shrugs, and says “Bombing run,” before pointing Derek to an empty cot at the end of the long room.

“Here you are. Next to Stilinski, across from McCall.” Parrish drops the towel and sheets on the foot of the mattress and gestures to the wooden pegs mounted on the wall next to the bed. “We keep our quarters neat. You’re not subject to inspection, of course, but…”

“Not to worry,” Derek slings the rucksack off his shoulder and kicks it under the bed. “Didn’t bring much.”

“Good!” Parrish beams at him, and Derek honestly can’t tell if he’s faking all of this, or if “determinedly cheerful” is actually just his natural state. “Dinner’s at 1700 hours in the Mess Hall. That’s the third building on your right from this one. The boys’ll be back in an hour or so, but they’ll need some time to take care of the planes, so you’ll want to just get settled in.”

Derek nods in understanding, fingers already itching to unwrap his camera. The afternoon light through the grimy windows is perfectly lighting the wardrobe across from him, and he really wants to get in some situational shots before the boys get back.

“Thanks. I’ll just…” he gestures vaguely at his bag and the room, and Parrish nods and steps to the door.

“Shout if you need anything!” he says, gives a jaunty wave, and marches out the door. Derek shakes his head to himself, settles down on the foot of the bed, and unwraps a lens.

Time to get to work.

\--

He spends a good hour setting up shots in the barracks, easy but delicate scenes of helmets braced on bed ends, flight goggles hanging from a wooden peg in the golden light. They’re not the action shots that will make or break his story, but they’ll be good filler, and he likes them, enjoys the quiet practice of composing them, adjusting the aperture, holding his breath while his finger presses the button.

It’s hard to be here, harder than he thought. He can’t help but look at the carefully folded uniforms, the crisp lines of the beds, and think, I could be here too, I could do this too. Except, of course he can’t, and no amount of shame or anger can undo it. He’s just got to accept his lot as it is, even if it stabs at him, that his uncle, his brother, all these men, are off being heroes and saving the world while he watches from behind a lens, scratching notes into his books.

He hears the planes come in, a low whine in the distance that turns into a thrumming roar and then the bumping skid of tires on tarmac punctuated with excited shouts. It must have been a good run, he thinks, because there’s no sound of fear, no shouts of urgency, just the sounds of men hustling to get their work done for the day.

Checking his watch informs him that it’s quarter of, so he wraps up his equipment and slips out the back door just as he hears someone bang in through the front. His sisters would make fun of him, but he doesn’t care; meeting new people by sitting in their private spaces waiting to be discovered is just not his style, so he leans up against the back of the barracks and lights up a smoke, watching as the late-fall twilight spreads across the fields.

\--

The mess hall is crowded and noisy when he enters at a little past five, a sea of young men in various stages of flight gear and undress shouting and pushing good naturedly as they navigate through the crowd for plates, silverware, food. The cooks and servers behind the counter shout back, playing joking favorites with extra helpings as the men go through the lines.

“Hale, over here!”

Parrish’s voice is a welcome diversion in the midst of the din, and Derek worms his way through the press of people to the Lieutenant’s side.

“Here, I’ll take you around.” Parrish grabs his elbow and steers him toward the counter, swiping trays and silverware for both of them and shoving Derek ahead of him into the line. “It’s a madhouse in here at meal times. You’d think the boys were infantry the way they can pack it away!” He throws his head back and laughs, and Derek chuckles with him, just a beat behind.

A plate with a pile of beans and something that looks like it may have once been chicken lands on his tray, slopped with what is presumably a gravy-like substance. Derek peers at it suspiciously.

“Yeah, it’s not what you’d get back home, but it’ll keep you in business.” Parrish laughs at Derek’s expression, and hands him a tin can of milk, popping two holes in it expertly with a can opener attached to the wall by a string. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Flight Five.” He heads off into the fray, and Derek can only follow him to a long table in the middle of the back, full of young men who raise their heads at him expectantly as he approaches in Parrish’s wake.

“Men, this is Mr. Derek Hale. He’s a reporter with Life magazine, and he’ll be spending about a week with us.” Parrish’s tone is as cheerful as before, but the reactions at the table are varied. Derek notes them all, watching them respond to the news. Several of the boys seem pleased, at least one visibly preening at the thought of warranting a reporter, while others study the intruder warily. “He’s going to be doing some photographs of all of you, and of the planes, and maybe some interviews, and Col. Argent wants you all to treat him with the utmost respect.”

Some of the men roll their eyes a bit, which he expected, but the young man at the middle of the table stands up with a big smile and holds out his hand.

“Scott McCall, First Lieutenant. Pleasure to meet you, Hale.”

McCall’s grip is firm and his smile sunny, dark brown hair flopping over his forehead as he shakes Derek’s hand. He’ll be the focus, Derek thinks immediately- he’s got a face that will sell copies for a month, exuding the sort of home-grown wholesomeness that will make the audience back home swoon.

“McCall here’s the Flight Leader for Flight Five.” Parrish beams at both of them, and McCall ducks his head modestly. “McCall,” Parrish turns to him, “I’m bunking Hale with you all for the week. Take him up on a few joyrides and let him ask his questions. He’s to have free access to everything, so long as he’s accompanied, but let me know if you have any questions.”

“Yessir.” McCall salutes amiably, and Parrish claps Derek on the shoulder and then moves off into the crowd, leaving him standing awkwardly at the end of the table.

“Here, Isaac, budge up.” McCall addresses a blond boy near the end who obligingly scoots over enough into his neighbor’s space that Derek can fit most of his tray onto the table, and most of his rear onto the bench. “Welcome aboard, Hale!”

McCall sits down, but leans forward so he can still see Derek, gesturing at the men around them with his fork. “This here’s most of Flight Five- Lahey’s the one you’re next to,” the blond boy nods shyly, “then Matt,” a forgettably average young man, “myself, and the twins, Ethan and Aiden,” McCall gestures to the two squished-faced lunks on his left who nod in eerie unison. “Down there’s Boyd,” the handsome black man at the end of the table nods politely, “Danny and Jackson,” another good-looking pair, one darker and one as fair as a face on a recruiting poster, “Liam,” who can’t be a day over fifteen, Derek thinks, “and across from you is Stiles, my second.”

Derek lifts his face to the man across from him and nearly chokes on his beans. He’s young and lean, dark haired and eyed like Scott, near enough that they could be brothers, but where McCall’s face is open and friendly, Stiles’ visage is closed in spite of the smile he trots out, wariness hanging in the back of his coffee-colored eyes.

“Stilinski,” he says, putting out a hand, and Derek takes it against his better judgment, feeling it cold and callused against his own warm palm. His grip is firm and unwavering, unfazed by the stranger in their midst.

“Call me Derek,” he responds, and Stilinski grins slowly.

“Mr. Hale,” he replies.

\--

The food, such as it is, gets devoured in huge quantities, and then the trays get knocked and dumped, the tables wiped, and suddenly the meal is gone, and the room is turned from a large cafeteria into a social space with a shocking efficiency. A good portion of the diners remain in the mess hall, clearing their trays and breaking out decks of cards and a couple of bottles of beer, a stash of buttons and pennies and other assorted bric-a-brac coming out to serve as make-shift poker chips. Others, as Derek discovers when he heads back to the barracks, retire to their bunks to maintain equipment or write letters or read.

“Here,” McCall laughs as Derek settles onto his bunk to take off his boots, “catch!”

Derek turns just in time to intercept the small bag of hard candy that flies at his head, snagging it out of the air with more reflex than skill.

“Nice one!” McCall beams at him, and Boyd just chuckles from a few bunks down. “They give us all candy rations for the planes, damned if I know why.” McCall smiles his crooked grin, and Derek unties the ribbon around the waxed paper to peer inside the little striped baggie. “I guess they figure it’s the least they can do to keep our morale up while we’re getting shot at every day.” He laughs, and pops one out from his own bag and into his mouth.

“Thanks,” Derek says, and looks through what he’s been given. Several butterscotches, a couple peppermints. A few lemon drops, and what looks like it must be a licorice. He picks a lemon drop, setting it on his tongue and rolling it around.

Boyd rolls over and goes back to his careful penmanship, and McCall pulls out his boots and a polishing kit. The barracks are silent, save for the rhythmic scratching of Boyd’s pen and the sounds of Scott rummaging in his kit.

“So, tell us about yourself, Hale.”

“Hmm?” Derek startles at the voice. It’s one of the two pretty boys who’d spoken, the darker one, Derek can’t remember his name. It’s dim enough with just the lamps lit that he hadn’t noticed them laying on their bunks at the far end of the room.

“Well, you’re going to get to know us well enough real soon. Only fair we know a bit about you.” The man shrugs amiably enough, and his fair-haired, square-jawed friend nods from beside him.

“Yeah. What’s your game here, Hale?”

“Um.”

“Danny, Jackson. Mr. Hale doesn’t have to tell us anything he doesn’t want to.” Scott looks at them in mild disapproval, then smiles placatingly at Derek. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to.”

“No, no.” Derek recovers his presence of mind, and situates himself on the end of the bed. He can’t help but feel a little wary; there are several reasons they might resent his presence here, starting with his occasional dalliances with the stronger sex and running right through to “he gets to go home and they don’t.” He rolls his shoulders casually, determined not to let his nerves show.

“Fair’s fair. I don’t mind. What do you want to know?”

The dark haired one, Danny, shrugs a shoulder. “You know, getting-to-know-you jabber. What’s your name, where you from, who’s your family.”

Derek nods. This he can do. “My name’s Derek Hale. Um, I’m from California, originally. Grew up just outside of San Francisco.”

“Say, alright!” Scott beams over at him from where he’s working over the toe of his left boot. “I’m from north of Sacramento myself. Only been to San Francisco a couple times, but it sure is a hell of a city!”

“She is.” Derek smiles politely. “My parents still live there. I’ve been in New York for the past five years.”

“Siblings?”

“Yes, three of them. An older sister, a younger brother, and a younger sister.”

“Anyone in your family in the service?” This from Jackson, delivered in a slightly sneering tone with a raised eyebrow to suit.

“Yes.” Derek pauses, thinking of his family for a moment. “My brother, Arthur, he’s in the Marines. And my uncle Peter is in the Navy, down near Guadalcanal.”

“Ooh,” Danny sucks some air through his teeth. “Hot damn. Tough break, man.”

Derek shrugs. “Peter’s always been good at landing on his feet and coming out of FUBAR situations smelling of roses. I wish him the best, but I’m not too concerned.”

“How bout a jane?” Scott grins at him conspiratorially. “Got a fancy New York gal?”

“No.” Derek frowns faintly. “I had a partner, Kate; she used to do the interviews, I’d take the pictures, but… she met a high society pretty boy, and booked it last spring. So I’m a solo act these days.” He looks at his hands for a minute, remembering flashes of Kate’s perfectly curled hair, immaculate make-up, and lilting laugh. “Haven’t had too much interest in finding someone else.”

“Haha,” Jackson calls, “Hale here’s a member of the brush-off club! Nothin’ like gettin’ ditched to make you sour on the dames.” He leers. “Good thing you’re sleeping by Stilinski; you two can keep each other company at night.”

Derek freezes for a second, then forces himself to relax. He’s heard wildly varying accounts of the treatment, and even acknowledgment, of flits in the forces. He knows his sisters and their friends don’t pay any of it any mind, but it’s different for women; no one worries about whether girls alone in a barracks shower might get up to immoral things, but to be branded a queer in a group of men can get you in a lot of trouble right fast if it’s the wrong group.

If it’s the right group, well…

“Don’t mind Jackson, he’s just jealous of your pretty face,” Boyd rumbles from closer by. “He wishes Stilinski was hot to trot for him, can’t stand the thought that anyone in the world might pick someone else over him.”

“Shut your trap, Vern.” Jackson’s scowling, but Boyd just laughs.

“You shoulda heard his belly-aching when Stiles and Danny were spending time. Not only did Stiles not lift a shirt for him, he was stealing Jackson’s best friend.”

“Hey, leave me out of this. I don’t want my private matters splashed on the pages of Life magazine,” Danny protests, hands up.

“Just trying to make him feel at home.” Boyd shrugs. “He’s not going to put any of this in his article, are you, Hale?” Boyd looks over at him sternly.

“No, no.” Derek holds his hands out and shakes his head. “No, of course not.”

“‘s what I thought. See, Danny? All good.”

“Sorry, Hale.” Scott laughs softly, and switches to his other boot. “We get a little carried away sometimes. Been living together too long.”

“Of course.” Derek forces himself to smile openly at them and rolls his neck to release the tension, then abruptly shoves his feet back into his boots. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen. I’m gonna go get some fresh air before I turn in.”

“Okay.” McCall gives him an easy smile from across Stilinski’s empty bed. “We’ll have the lights out and blackout curtains down by nine. If you’re not back by then, be careful not to hit your shins on the bed when you come back in.” He laughs. “Trust me, we’ve all done it.”

“I’ll walk slowly.” Derek ties his second boot, and stands up to slide his jacket on, patting his pocket to check for his smokes. “Thanks.”

Scott lifts a hand in farewell, and Derek steps out the door.

\--

He makes it through his first cigarette while just leaning up against the back of the barracks, watching the pale crescent moon rise up from the horizon. It’s cold, but not miserably so. Just enough for him to wish he’d remembered to grab his hat along with his coat before he’d stepped out the door.

He watches his breath puff into the night air, follows the last tip of the lunar crescent out of the fields and into the star-strewn sky. Off in the distance there’s a rustling in the grass, followed by a sudden rush of wings as an owl dives and grasps its prey.

He could go back in. Probably _should_ go back in, in fact. Boyd’s not-at-all subtle recognition, and thankfully tacit acceptance, of who and what he is should be reassuring, but it’s also unsettling. He’s careful, always, what he shows where, and this is no exception. There are circles where it’s fine, of course, and he’s done well for himself in New York on several levels; personally, professionally. Romantically, until Kate had left him; he doesn’t find many women compelling, but she’d been one whom he did, and he’d been devastated for a time when she’d cut her ties.

Now, he’s alone, both figuratively and literally. Alone in his work, alone in his life, alone out here in the dark southeast of England, the scents of autumn leaves and fuel oil in his nose.

He doesn’t think about it too much; he just starts to walk.

The moon is small and thin, and there are no lights on in the buildings, so the dark is, well, quite dark, but he can make out the lines of the light-painted buildings and the spreading path of concrete between them. He slips off down the way, his shoes slapping softly against the hard surface.

He nearly walks into the line of planes before he fully sees them, and thinks suddenly of Don Quixote and his giants, chuckles to himself at the helpless thought that perhaps that is what they are all doing, tilting at the Axis windmills and getting swept off their feet into the sky, broken lance in one hand, dented helmet in the other. He sets his hand on the body of the plane, using it to lightly guide himself to its end, then takes a few more steps until he’s clear of the line, and can make out the hulking shadowy shapes of several more lines stretching out before him.

He’s picking out constellations he hasn’t seen since he was a child (at least the blackout is good for something, he thinks), when a muffled curse makes him jump.

“ _Goddammit_ , why can’t they send us useful parts!”

It’s from off to his left somewhere, the voice gone as quickly as it comes. He waits for a long moment, two, and sure enough, there’s a muffled clang from the next row, maybe halfway down.

He’s stepping toward it before he consciously decides to. Might be that it’s a bad idea; it must be one of the Flight out here, but it’s very probably someone he hasn’t met, and he’s not supposed to be wandering around without a guide, but… his curiosity is piqued, and he’s always been bad about sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s how he ended up in journalism, Laura would say, and she wouldn’t actually be wrong, though he’d never admit it.

A sudden thud from the plane immediately to his left tells him he’s close, but before he can do anything, there’s a rattling and a painful curse, and pen light comes on.

“Matt, you creep, I can hear you breath… oh.” The penlight shines directly in Derek’s eyes, and he puts up an instinctive hand to ward it off. “You’re not Daehler.”

“No. I’m not. Can you take the light down, please?”

“Hmph.” Stilinski snorts. “Dunno why I should. What the hell are you doing, sneaking around the planes at night? You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“Technically, neither are you,” Derek points out, then wishes he could slap himself. He can feel the heat of Stilinski’s glare on him, even with his eyes closed against the sharpness of the light still shining on him.

“Smart mouth on you, city boy. What _are_ you doing out here? I’ll ask you again, and if it turns out you’re some Kraut spy, I’ll feed your liver to the gulls myself.”

“Jesus Christ, Stilinski, are you this suspicious of everyone?” Derek blinks painfully, and Stilinski finally clicks off the light. The darkness is now full of fireworking reds and blues, but it’s an improvement. “I’m doing my goddamn job, you idiot,” Derek waves his hands in spite of the darkness, and talks to where he thinks Stilinski’s face is.

“Your job is to take pictures. Little dark for a camera out here.” Stilinski snorts.

“My job is to look at things, to observe. To talk to people, to get a feel for a place, and tell about it. And yes, to take pictures of all of those things.” Derek scowls and folds his arms. “What do you want me to say? Your companions are so scintillating I could barely tear myself away, but I needed some air, so I came for a walk. Satisfied?”

Stilinski snorts. “Satisfied? By the excuses of a good-for-nothing city boy who got some kind of exemption so he could take some pretty pictures? Try again, gink.”

“Hey, back it up.” Derek puts out a hand, suddenly pissed at this prickly fly-boy. “What, you think I do this because I didn’t want to serve?”

Incredibly, he can _feel_ the heat of Stilinski’s scathing once-over. “What else is it, then? You’re able bodied enough. All I can think’s that you’re one of those rich kids, sees themselves better than the rest of us. At least Jackson’s _here_ , even if he is a whey-faced asshole.”

Derek can feel his body tensing, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Who asked this smart mouthed kid, anyway? What the hell does this asshole know about Derek, and what he did or didn’t do, what he feels about being here, or how he ended up with his job?

“I’m a _goddamn_ 4-F,” he spits before he even realizes he’s saying it. “I was born three months early, and they didn’t think I’d live. I’ve got a heart murmur, and I’m deaf in my left ear. Does that satisfy you? _Jesus_.” He exhales hard, pulls out a cigarette and puts it to his lips. “You think I wouldn’t rather be in uniform with every other young man my age? You think I _like_ people assuming I’m a string-pulling nancy-boy, or a cowardly rich kid? I tried every goddamn branch of the service, twice. So _fuck_ you, Stilinski. You can take your assumptions and shove them.”

He pulls out his matches, fingers trembling, but a warm hand lands on his.

“Not here, idiot. I’ve got the engine open. You’ll blow us all to kingdom come faster than Jerry could say _sehr es gut_.”

Stilinski pulls him away from the plane, down to the wing, and strikes his own match, holding it up to Derek’s smoke, cupping his long fingers around the flame until it catches, then shaking it out. The brief glimpse Derek catches of his pale, sharp face is almost apologetic.

“Sorry. I…”

“No need.” Derek feels tired, suddenly, defeated.

“ _Yes_ , need.” Stilinski’s voice is sharp. “I shouldn’t have made assumptions. I just…” he sighs, and shifts where he stands, the sound of his leather jacket creaking loud in the dark night. “We didn’t have a lot, and neither did most of the folks I grew up with. I never thought that much about it till I signed up, and had to go train near the city.” He’s fidgety, Derek realizes, and thinks back to dinner earlier, calls up the memory of Stilinski fiddling endlessly with his silverware, his milk can, his lapels. “In the city, there were all these men who’d gotten exemptions, and me and my friends, we’re busy deciding who’s gonna get our saved up pay when we’re blown to pieces a thousand miles from home, and it just…” he blows out his breath hard, “it made me real angry.”

Derek nods, even though he knows Stilinski can’t see him.

“Anyway, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Ain’t your fault you couldn’t get in.”

“It’s why I’m here,” he says, surprised into honesty by Stilinski’s unexpected apology.

“Oh?” Stilinski sounds genuinely curious, and he tells himself that’s why he continues.

“Yeah, this…” Derek shrugs, “with the camera and the interviews. I know I don’t look it now, but I was kind of a sick kid for a while; had scarlet fever, the mumps, you name it. So I had to get good at things that didn’t take a lot of physical strength or stamina.” He kicks a pebble on the tarmac, and it skitters off into the distance. “Photos. Stories.” He takes a breath. “I turned out tall enough by the time I was twenty, and I keep myself fit, but… some of what you’re born with just stays with you.” He laughs bitterly. “Trust me, if I could change it, I would. But, when I got turned down for the last time, I decided that’s what I’d do, so at least I’d be useful somehow. I can’t work in a factory, I can’t go fight myself, but at least I can come show and tell about those who can. At least I can document all of you, and what you’re doing here. You’re heroes, you know? And I’m not, but at least I can tell your story.”

“Yeah,” Stilinski snorts, “big damn heroes. Canon fodder’s what we are; big damn idiots, willing to fling ourselves into the blue and get shot down like we’re birds in a hunt.”

Silence falls between them for a long minute, then Stilinski sets a hand on his shoulder. He’s close enough to Derek that he can hear Stilinski breathing, pulling air in over his chapped red lips.

“Hey. We should be getting back. You ready?”

Derek nods, and stays where he is as he hears Stilinski shuffle off to close up the engine with a bang, then feels him reappear at his side, where he takes Derek’s elbow, long fingers closing around the knob of bone.

“C’mon. Ain’t shit we can see out here anyway. May as well hit they hay.”

He leaves his hand on Derek’s elbow all the way back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He begins his work the next morning with McCall, the flight leader and obvious charismatic focal point of the group. All through dinner last night it was McCall that everyone turned to when they laughed, McCall who encourage the quiet ones to speak, McCall who made sure they all bussed their trays and were in bed by lights out. He’s not the kind of person Derek finds personally all that interesting, but he’s nice enough that it’s not going to be any kind of burden to work with him for a week, and Derek already knows he’ll make a great feature.

McCall takes him to the now-empty mess hall after breakfast, and they settle down with fresh cups of frankly terrible coffee at the end of a scrubbed-clean table. Derek takes a few shots of McCall lifting his cup and tipping his head, crooked jaw softened by the morning light and charming grin firmly in place, and then breaks out his notepad and pencil.

“Okay, so if we can start with your name and rank?”

“Scott Delgado McCall, First Lieutenant and Flight Leader for Flight Five.”

“And where are you from?”

McCall smiles, clearly thinking of his home. “California. A small town outside of Sacramento; Beacon Hills. An overgrown farm town, you know the kind.”

“Tell me a little about your life there.”

This is the part that Derek usually struggles with; he’s the “photo” part of “photojournalist” really, but it’s cheaper and easier to go on solo assignments, and he hasn’t had a good partner since Kate. Most everyone’s too busy either helping with the war effort, fighting in the war effort, or already covering the war effort, so he’s stuck on his own for now. It’s a challenge, and he’s trying to rise to the occasion, but he knows he’s not the most engaging of men, and it shows in his interviews.

Fortunately, Scott McCall doesn’t seem impeded by Derek’s more taciturn tendencies, and launches into his life story without any prodding needed, and Derek scribbles along in short-hand.

“...so my mother got her nurse’s training after my father got sent by the government to work overseas, and I got a part-time job working with the veterinarian in town, mostly livestock work, you know, but it paid. Stilinski and I,” and Derek can’t help but glance up at the name, “you met him last night, my second,” Derek nods carefully, thinking of the intelligent eyes that had watched him over dinner, the grip of Stiles fingers that had lingered even as they entered the barracks in the dark. McCall continues without missing a beat. “He and I grew up together, we’re like brothers. His mom died when we were kids, and my dad got stationed not too long after, so his dad is like a dad to me, and my mom always treated him like her own.” McCall smiles, eyes far away. “She cried and cried when we both joined up. The Sheriff, though, Stiles’ dad, he was real proud.”

“Why did you sign up?”

Scott shrugs. “Well, it was sign up or be drafted. We just beat it to the punch. Stiles always did have a thing for planes, well, for anything mechanical at all, really; he was always taking things apart when we were kids, just so he could see how they worked. So we figured we’d just go ahead and join the Air Force and do our part instead of waiting around to be called up. Not much to do in Beacon Hills if you’re not settling down to raise a family anyway.”

“You don’t have a girl back home?”

“Naw,” Scott’s grin is big and sly, “I got a girl right here. You know about the WAC?”

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “Both my sisters joined up, so, yes, I’m familiar.”

“Swell, man!” McCall’s grin splits his face. “We’ve got a group of them in the base just two miles up the road. I wonder if any of them would know your sisters?” He’s  like an over-excited puppy when something grabs his fancy, Derek thinks. Cora would pinch his cheeks till they pinked.

Derek studiously keeps his face composed. “They might, I suppose.” They definitely do, in fact, given that his sister Laura is the lead flier on that very same base, and is indeed the very reason that he’s here. She’d known he was looking for an in, and had gotten the Colonel’s daughter to talk her father into allowing him access. But while he’s very grateful to all concerned, it doesn’t do to let on that a project you’re hoping to be a critical career success was handed to you because of your sister’s connections, so he just nods and re-directs.

“You stepping out with one of the WAC girls?”

“Yeah.” Scott’s face goes all dreamy, and Derek has to muffle a snort into a large gulp of coffee. “Yeah, Allison. She’s a piece of alright.” Scott moons for a moment before he comes back to earth, then perks up. “Hey, we’re all going over to their place for a dance, not tomorrow night, but Friday. You should come! You can get some good shots, talk to some people, do what you do.” He flaps a hand at the camera and notepad

Oh god, Derek thinks, a dance with his sisters. It’ll be high school all over again. Derek can barely quell the dread he feels at the thought, but he doesn’t really have grounds to refuse. It’s a great opportunity to mingle, to write some atmospheric bits about life on base, and he can see just from the look on Scott’s face that he’s not about to take ‘no’ for an answer. Derek’ll just have to fly under the radar, and hope his sisters are too pre-occupied to notice him skulking about.

“You bet,” Derek smiles, and taps his pencil against the notepad. “Now, tell me more about how you got here.”

\--

His interview with McCall is more than productive, and he wraps up feeling much more positive about this story than he has thus far. It’s not that he didn’t think he could do it, necessarily? But it’s the first major story he’ll be writing on his own, his first major photos AND narrative since Kate left him, and he really needs it to be good, for himself, for his career, and, frankly, to rub it in her face.

But Scott is almost too perfect; the easy-going overachiever with the impeccable background and dating the Colonel’s daughter. He’ll draw the readers in, have them rooting for him before Derek’s even finished the first paragraph. Then, once they’re hooked, Derek can pull them on to the more interesting members of the group, can start to talk about the bigger issues of the war, but with the personal framework of these boys’ stories.

They wander outside into the bright sun, the sounds of plane engines echoing from down the runway. Derek wonders suddenly if he’s kept McCall from his duties, and the question must show on his face, because McCall just smiles and says, “Flight Two’s out today. We’re on maintenance.”

“I should have asked, though- do you need to be somewhere? I’d like to snap a few shots, if you have the time, but I don’t want to interfere.”

“No, it’s fine.” McCall starts walking, and gestures for Derek to follow. “C’mon, let’s go down to the planes. I’m sure you’re dying to take some pictures of our pretty ladies, and we’re all grounded today anyway, so it’d be the perfect time to get your shots.”

\--

He takes some excellent photos of McCall, if he does say so himself; it’s hard not to, really; the kid’s handsome in a very easy and comfortable way. He’s the boy next door, the kind of good looking man you take home so your mother and aunties can feed him pie and kiss his face. Trussed up in his flying jacket and boots, posing with his plane? Anyone could take these photos, but that’s ok, Derek’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The rest of the flight are all out, too, mostly in mechanics coveralls or their undershirts and an old pair of pants, working on the various planes scattered around the tarmac. The day is the warmest yet, a real Indian Summer, Derek thinks, if you can call it that when it’s in England. It’s not quite noon, but the sun’s been out all morning heating up the metal and the concrete, and the air is still and dry.

“There are better mechanics,” McCall says at one point, catching him watching Lahey emerge from the underbelly of his plane smeared with engine oil, “who handle the more major repairs. But they have a hard time finding enough trained personnel, so we’re all in charge of the basic stuff. Oil changes, gassing up, loading the ammo, that sort of thing. A lot of us already knew how anyway, and the rest of us learned how in basic.”

Derek nods, and focuses his lens in on the look of concentration on Whittemore’s face as he tightens a washer behind the propeller of one of the smaller planes. It makes sense, to have the pilots know their own planes; if they’re downed and survive, they may be able to make basic repairs enough to get themselves flying again, and in the meantime it makes them informed fliers. It also makes for great shots, he thinks- not only are the boys heroic, they’re visibly hard-working in a way a lot of his audience can relate to.

“Alright, fly boys,” McCall shouts with a grin, “round ‘em up. Time to let Mr. Hale here get us looking our best for the folks back home!” He turns to Derek, “Do you want us all in full uniform?”

“No,” Derek looks over the assembling group with an appraising eye, “it’s good like this; it’s a more interesting photo if you look like you’re all in the middle of something. Less yearbook, more day-in-the-life.”

McCall nods cheerfully, and walks over to take his place with the others, jostling in among the group and throwing his arms around Stilinski and Lahey. “You ginks ready?”

“That’s it, gentlemen,” Derek says, framing the shot, “smile so Grandma can see you!”

_Click_ says his camera.

\--

After a series of group shots (the classics: some of the boys balanced on the wings of the planes, some of them casually strolling toward him, some of them posed in front of the propeller), he takes them off one by one for shots with their planes. Most of them are easy: the twins, one leaning on each side of the fuselage; Lahey with a wrench and grease on his face; Boyd in the cockpit with his goggles on staring determinedly into the sky. Even the more difficult ones (Daehler, who can’t smile naturally for love nor money) get done quickly enough.

He saves Stilinski for last.

“What’s the problem, hot shot?” Stilinski greets him with a smirk when Derek wanders over to where he’s perched on the nose of his plane, replacing the wiper blades. “Afraid I’d break your camera?” He’s stripped down to his undershirt and a pair of old trousers with a hole in the knee, and has engine oil smeared six ways from Sunday.

He looks delectable, and Derek has to remind himself yet again that passing the time with one of his article subjects is a bad idea, especially this one, especially here, when he’s working, when there’s a war on, when… _fuck_..

“Not at all.” Derek smirks back and fires off a quick series of shots: Stilinski balanced on the nose of the plane; Stilinski turned to laugh at him; Stilinski leaping down from the plane. “Just saving the best for last.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Stilinski says, and shrugs on his uniform shirt, then steps forward with a leer that makes Derek devoutly hope that there’s no one watching them. “How do you want me?”

_Any way I can get you_ , Derek thinks, and adjusts his stance.

“On your back,” Derek says, and Stilinski throws his head back and laughs, his eyes squeezing shut and the muscles in his neck moving with the motion, “...under the plane,” he finally adds. Stilinski just shakes his head and lays down on the roller board to slide down next to the landing gear.

“Now what?” he says, looking up at Derek with those ridiculous eyes and his obscenely perfect mouth, “I’m all ready down here. You gonna leave me hanging?”

Derek adjusts his shutter speed, lines up the shot.

“Never,” he says, and means it more than he’d like.

\--

“You ever been in a plane before, Hale?” Stilinski is devastatingly attractive in his leather flying jacket, goggles perched haphazardly in the mess of his dark hair. Derek thinks he’s still a little irritated at having to babysit a civilian, but his outright animosity toward Derek is gone, and his puckish grin reflects the excitement he and McCall always seem to exude when he sees them with their planes.

Derek lines up a shot of McCall as he reaches up to pat a propeller, face in shadow but sun gleaming off his leather jacket. He can feel the rightness of it even as his shutter clicks.

“No, Stilinski, I swam over from New York. Long way, too. Chilly, you know?”

He drops the camera from his face in time to catch Stilinski’s eye-roll, and grins.

“ _Those_ are not planes. Those are magical flying cattle cars. _This_ is a plane.” Stilinski strokes the wing of the fighter next to him.

“Looks a little bit like a tin can with wings to me,” Derek says, and snaps a shot of Stilinski’s outraged face.

“Don’t you listen to him, baby,” Stiles whispers _sotto voce_ as he pets the side of the fuselage. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s just some slick city boy here talking out his ass, he wouldn’t even know what to do with your control column.” Stilinski turns back to Derek with a dark look on his face. “Just for that, we’re taking you up in the B-17 first. We’ll just save our beauties till you’ve learned a proper appreciation for a good solid plane.”

Derek snaps another shot, this one of the painted red-haired pin-up on the side of the nose next to the words “ _The Banshee”_.

“Does…” he squints at the delicately painted cursive caption near the round knees of the voluptuous beauty, “...Miss Martin know that you’ve named your plane after her?”

“Know?” Stilinski grins, brown eyes glinting in the morning sun, “You kidding? She posed for that. Made us re-do it till she was sure it was as pretty as she is!”

Derek laughs open-mouthed, and takes a series of photos of Stilinski reaching his hand up to blow her a kiss.

“Scott!” Stilinski yells, turning to jog down the runway. “Get the ol’ school bus ready. We’re taking city boy here up in that one first.”

\--

The School Bus is appropriately impressive, as it turns out, and Derek can’t bring himself to be too sad that Stilinski is “punishing” him by introducing him to flying in it. In spite of what he’d implied to Stilinski, he actually hasn’t flown that often, preferring trains and cars when he’s back home for the opportunity they give him to photograph people, animals, and the countryside. This is his first overseas assignment, and while the plane he’d boarded in New York wasn’t the first plane he’d ever been on, it was definitely the first one in a while.

“What kind of plane is this again? A…”

“B-17 F,” McCall replies, “a flying fortress!” He glances over his shoulder from where he sits next to Stilinski in the cockpit, clearly loving every minute they’re in the air. “These babies are what’s giving the Jerry factories hell right now- we’re breaking the…” Stilinski elbows him sharply in the side, and a sudden contrite expression comes over McCall’s face. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t tell you too many details about what we’re doing right now.” He waves a hand and smiles apologetically. “Can’t have it in print, you know.”

“Pretty sure the Axis have better sources of information than Life magazine,” Derek chuckles, “but I understand. Why don’t you tell me about the plane instead?”

“Okay!” McCall’s face brightens immediately, and he launches in. “Well, this one here is a B-17 F, like I said, and what we do is drop bombs, big ones. But we’re good at it, cause these here dames can fly higher and longer than pretty much anything else, so we can make it over to Berlin and drop a bomb on Hitler’s front yard, and ain’t much the Luftwaffe can do about it ‘cept get angry, cause they can’t get get quite as high as we can!”

“Well,” Stilinski grumbles, “there IS the anti-aircraft fire…”

“Yeah,” McCall grimaces, “yeah, they do like to throw up flak, which is a real bitch. But! These babies can take a real beating, and still make it home to tell the tale.”

“It’s true,” Lahey pipes up from his seat a little further back at the navigation console, “there was one what come in to a base twenty miles north of us just a month ago, half a wing, lost two engines and a propellor, shot all to hell, but still came in and landed. Only one casualty.”

“Okay, so,” Derek’s notes on his pad are going to be godawful to read later, but oh well. He can check in with the boys if he needs clarification. “How many men does it take to fly one of these, then?”

“Well, we’re up here today with four, which is basically the minimum crew. The ladies fly ‘em over with three, because you really only need the pilot, the co-pilot, and the navigator, but since it’s wartime and you just never know who might try and elbow their way into protected airspace, we’ve brought Boyd here along to joyride in the top turret. If anyone shows up, he can distract them long enough for us to land.”

Derek turns to catch a glimpse of the sturdy flier behind him as Boyd tips his non-existent hat in Derek’s direction. Derek grins, and snaps a photo.

“You should bring that clicker back here, Derek,” Boyd offers, stepping down from his spot in the plexiglass dome, “you’ve got a real good view of the plane up here.”

“Yeah?” Derek feels a little dubious about the idea of standing up and walking around, but Stilinski turns his head to smirk like he can sense the momentary hesitation, so Derek unbuckles himself and stands, letting Boyd guide him up until he’s properly situated in the central gun turret.

It is a great view, in fact- the wings of the plane stretch off to either side, and in front of him the top of the cockpit slopes down into the clear nose. If he cranes his head around, he can see the tail rising up behind him, backlit against the late-morning clouds.

“Usually, though, “ Scott continues from below as Derek focuses his lens and snaps a few shots, trying to capture the sense of space around them, “we’d have ten on board. Me, Stiles, and Isaac, of course; pilot, co-pilot, and navigator; and then also a radio operator, and gunners in the nose, the ball turret, the tail, and two at the waist.”

“That’s a lot of gunners.”

“Yeah.” It’s Stilinski this time who answers, “it works, though. There’s basically no direction we can be snuck up on in this thing, and when there’s a wing of us, we’re damn near impenetrable.”

“Except…” Boyd calls out, “to the anti-aircraft fire.”

“Yeah. Except for that.” Stilinski scowls. “Amazing how inanimate chunks of metal flying at you don’t care if you see or shoot at them.”

It’s hard to picture, at least for Derek. Probably not hard to picture at all for the others, he supposes. But they’re flying over the south of England, and it’s all pastures and fields and the occasional sheep as far as the eye can see. The word “bucolic” was invented for this, he thinks, and if it weren’t for the lack of cars on the roads and every so often the sight of a military installation, you’d never know anything had changed. The idea of this, but with bullets flying at him is so foreign he can’t hold it in his mind, what that would look like, what that would be.

“Alright, Stiles, let’s bring her around and head to base. Time to take Mr. Hale here up in something a little more exciting.”

“Roger that, McCall.” Stilinski snaps off an overly enthusiastic salute, and Derek can see Boyd roll his eyes at them.

“C’mon down, Mr. Hale. You’ll want to be in your seat for landing.”

“Call me Derek, please.” Boyd nods, and hands Derek down, pointing him back to his seat just in front of Isaac and then climbing back into his turret.

It doesn’t feel dangerous, Derek thinks, not at all. Even with the precaution of Boyd and his guns at the ready, it’s easy, peaceful, and calm. He wonders if this is how it is when they fly to Germany, too, if the fields are still green, if they soar calmly above the clouds, only getting shot at when they get close to a target.

“You know, this was real nice.” Lahey comments idly as the runway for the base comes into view, “I don’t remember the last time we’ve gone more than twenty minutes without being shot at.” He smiles angelically.

_Well_ , Derek supposes, _that answers that._

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Lahey, if you could state your name, rank, and hometown, please? And tell me a little about what you do?”

The kid is clearly a little nervous, but he steadies himself and nods.

“Isaac Patrick Lahey, Senior Airman, Taos, New Mexico. I’m a navigator, and sometimes a gunner.” Isaac’s fingers open and close around each other on the table top, knuckles going white with tension.

God, this is going to be like pulling teeth. Derek can already tell.

“Tell me about your family, Isaac.”

It’s the wrong question. The boy visibly twitches, his jaw going hard while he simultaneously hunches in on himself. Christ. “Any siblings?”

The boy relaxes slightly at that, though his jaw is still clenched, and gives a brief nod.

“One brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“He’s older. Well. He was older.” Isaac looks at his hands, and Derek wants to stab himself with his own pencil, but then Isaac looks up again and there’s a firmness in him that wasn’t there before. “Corporal Camden Lahey. Killed in the Philippines early this year. That’s all,” Isaac says, holding Derek’s gaze, “I’m the only one now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Isaac slumps again. “He was six years older than me. But he was the apple of our Pa’s eye. Ma done run off when I was ten, and Camden helped raise me.”

“And how’d you end up in the Air Force, Isaac?”

Isaac shrugs. “Went down to the enlistment station, and the Air Force had the shortest line. Pa said it was shameful if I didn’t go sign up just as soon as my birthday hit, but I was darn tired of school, so I cut out at the Christmas holidays last year, and lied about my age.”

“How old are you now?” The boy across from him is very obviously just that; a boy. Where some of the others are strapping and sturdy from farmwork or sports, Isaac is long and slender, curly blond hair that falls into his faded blue eyes. He’s cherubic in a way that’s never particularly appealed to Derek, but which some folks eat up with a spoon.

“Oh, I had my birthday in March. I’m eighteen now.” He smiles with the first real glimpse of confidence Derek’s seen from him yet. “Got my assignment on my birthday. Came here the next day, and been here ever since.”

“And your father? What does he do?”

Isaac’s face clouds over again. “Well, he’s a groundskeeper. It’s a good job,” he says defensively, and Derek keeps his face blank, “he takes care of the town landscaping, for all the public buildings, the park, and the cemetery. He had a real hard time when the telegraph about Camden came, but he’s getting better. He is.”

“You got a girl back home? Someone writing you letters?”

Isaac laughs, a hint of amusement with a touch of bitterness.

“No, Camden was the one with the ladies. They all loved him, and he loved them right back. Me, not so much. But that’s ok; I think Taos bout ran out of hankies when he died. At least I’ve got no one to miss me if anything happens.”

“And when the war is over? You heading home to Taos?”

“No, sir!” Isaac’s curls bounce as he shakes his head vigorously. “No, I think I’ll just stay in, if I make it through. I got no future in Taos. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a real nice place, and it’ll always be home, but I want to see the world, and do something I can be proud of.” He nods seriously at Derek, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. “No, it’s the Air Force life for me.”

\--

He didn’t really want to go with them to the dance, but the boys had left him little choice. Boyd had tossed the boot polish on his cot with a single raised eyebrow, daring him to argue, and Danny had insisted on helping Derek slick his hair back “properly”.

He feels out of place, the only man not in uniform, but he lets them hustle him into the transport without too much protesting, taking refuge in the camera around his neck. It can be a professional outing. He can practice his action shots on the dancers.

The rest of the men get ready in a pushing, laughing melee of cologne and pomade and starched dress uniforms, and then he’s shoved into the back of a jeep with Dunbar on one side of him and Stilinski on his other. Daehler is pressed up against the door on Dunbar’s other side, staring grumpily out the window, Boyd and McCall are up front.

“How many of the girls do you think will be there?” Dunbar, the youngest, asks nervously, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “Some of them will be flying planes over, right? Do you think there’ll be more of them than there are of us?”

McCall, who’s driving, throws a quick smile over his shoulder as they pull out onto the road toward the WAC base. “Don’t worry, Liam, you’ll be fine. There’ll be as many of them as there are us, and it’ll all be fun.”

“What if they’re all taken?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to dance with me,” Stilinski says with a purr, putting a hand on Derek’s thigh to lean over and smile winningly at Dunbar. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you lead.”

Daehler laughs at that, and it’s dark enough in the jeep that Derek thinks no one can see that Stilinski hasn’t removed his hand from Derek’s thigh.

“Yeah, right. Don’t buy it for a minute, Liam- Stilinski here hasn’t followed someone else’s lead in his whole life. He’ll lead you on a merry round, but at the end, you’ll find yourself in a fix.”

“Careful, Daehler, that sounds like the voice of experience,” interjects Boyd from the front seat. “How many girls have you left in trouble back home? Did you join up because of a daddy with a shotgun?”

Daehler grins broadly, but with a look in his eye that makes Derek shudder involuntarily, Stilinski’s hand squeezing reassuringly on his leg.

“Only them that wanted it, Boyd. Only them that wanted it.”

\--

The WAC mess hall has been converted to a ballroom by dint of turning the tables on their ends and leaning them against the walls, while the benches have all been stacked outside or lined up in a single row at the end of the room for those taking a break from the dancing. Strings of little white electric bulbs have been strung from the ceiling, giving the room a dim, but warm, glow, and someone must’ve gone to collect late-blooming roses, because there are tiny blossoms pinned in bunches to the walls every few feet. There’s no live band, but there is a record player, some frankly impressively-sized speakers, and a waist-high stack of records being manned by…

“Derek!” she screams, knocking over the top half of the stack as she runs to leap at him. He catches her more by reflex than design, but thankfully neither drops her nor falls over, giving her a delighted spin before setting her on the ground and smiling.

“Erica! I didn’t know you’d be here!”

He’s genuinely glad to see her, a sudden reminder of home that makes him miss the days when she and his sisters would sit on the front porch in their summer dresses and bare legs drinking tea and teasing him mercilessly.

“Where else would I be?” she laughs, pulling him by the hand onto the dance floor. Someone starts the music, and they fall into a quick polka, hands and feet moving to the rhythm.

“I don’t know, maybe you would be off delivering a plane, or doing a training,” he says, spinning her around and pulling her back in, “is that where Cora and Laura are? I don’t see them here.”

“Yeah, Cora’s in Houston helping with some training flights, and Laura’s due back tomorrow with a Liberator.” Erica lets him dip her, eyes bright and blonde curls bouncing. “They’ve got me doing extra maintenance now, ever since they found out my dad was a mechanic, hah!”

“That’ll teach you,” Derek laughs, both of them breathing quickly as the music comes to a stop, “never let ‘em know what you’re good at, or you’ll be doing it forever.”

“God, I _know_ ,” she rolls her eyes, and takes his hand as the music starts up with a medium-tempo waltz, “what about you, though? How’re the boys treating you?”

“Oh, not too bad,” he says, eyes on the swirling crowd, feet stepping automatically to the rhythm. The men are all in uniform, a sea of drab punctuated by ripples of the women’s colored dresses, a flashing tide of changeable light. “They’ve got me stuck in with Flight Five.”

“Oh!” Erica’s face brightens, “that’s Boyd’s flight!”

“Why, yes,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow at her, “Mr. Boyd is a member of Flight Five. What would you know about that?”

Erica blushes prettily, and smacks him hard on the arm. “I just know, alright?”

“Uh huh. A casual interest. A trivial piece of information. Nothing worth writing home about, I take it?”

“Ugh, Derek! I haven’t missed you at all.” She sticks her tongue out at him. “Fine! We’ve been going steady for a month.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but he’s suddenly jostled, a collision with another couple knocking Erica and him sideways. He steadies them quickly, turning out of curiousity to see who had bumped into them.

“Honestly, Stiles, you’re a better dancer than this!” The beautiful redhead in Stilinski’s arms must be the famed Miss Martin, Derek realizes, and she is indeed gorgeous even as she frowns, her posture perfect, neck long and lovely. She turns to Erica and smiles, “Sorry, Erica! It’s like he was raised in a barn.”

Erica just laughs and waves as they move on, but Derek doesn’t realize he’s stilled until Erica elbows him to set him moving again. “Stiles  been giving you any trouble?”, she asks with a calculating eye.

Derek shakes his head, and moves with her off the floor. The music is wrapping up, and he can see Boyd moving toward them from across the room. “No, what kind of trouble would he give me?”

Erica purses her lips and tips her head to the side. “Well, he’s a trickster. Gets bored easy, likes to make trouble. Lydia and Scott are the only ones who can keep him in line.” Derek nods. He hasn’t specifically seen Stilinski actively causing trouble, but he can definitely believe that it’s only a matter of time. She watches him carefully. “He makes some of the men uncomfortable, but Scott won’t stand for any of them starting nothing with him, and Boyd says it’s really only Daehler and sometimes Jackson what don’t like him anyway.”

Derek’s chest tightens. Laura knows all of his secrets, but Cora and Erica probably suspect, he supposes. “Well,” he says after a moment, “I never did mind much about anything like that.”

She nods satisfied, and then squeals in delight as Boyd wraps his arms around her from behind and kisses her cheek.

“Mind if I cut in?” he asks politely, smiling wider than Derek’s seen from him.

“She’s all yours,” Derek says with a grin, watching as Boyd pulls Erica into a fast jitterbug, moving her around himself with ease. About half of the couples have cleared the floor to get a drink or have a smoke, leaving space for the more ambitious among them to cut a rug. Derek settles himself onto a bench and watches, the smell of the roses thick in the rapidly warming room.

Boyd and Erica are riveting on the floor, both clearly gifted athletes with great natural talent, and space moves around them as they move through steps and lifts, but Stilinski and Lydia Martin turn out to be maybe just one hair better. They move like twins, anticipating each other’s motions, Lydia’s flame-red hair flying crazily in the air around them as Stilinski swings her up and down, and over his shoulders, slinging her to the floor only to flip backward over her while she kicks madly at the air.

It’s astounding, Derek’s only seen things like it in the elite clubs in New York that Kate had dragged him to, and he stands at the end, shouting and applauding and stamping his feet with the rest of the crowd when the song finishes. Lydia and Erica are laughing, then embracing, while Boyd pulls out a hankie and mops his face, and Stiles…

Derek can’t take his eyes off Stiles. The color is high in his cheeks, the freckles that dot his face standing out against his fair skin, his eyes shining in the light, his chest rising and falling hard with his breathing. They lock eyes suddenly, and Stiles lifts his chin, just so, in challenge, his lips curving as he draws in breath. It’s more than Derek can stand; it makes him want, desperately and with an urgency he’s never felt before. He wants to dance with Stiles, wants to feel Stiles’ body moving against his own in a fast tempo, wants to see the lights reflecting in his warm dark eyes, wants to hear him laugh as Derek takes him in his arms.

It’s too much, it’s _too much_.

He stands abruptly, grabs his coat and hat off the bench, and walks out the door..

\--

“You left in a hurry.”

Footsteps behind him, and of course, Derek thinks, _of course_. Because if there’s one thing he’s learned about Stiles Stilinski in the last two days, it’s that he can’t just leave well enough alone.

“Surprised you noticed,” he offers tersely. “Seemed like you and Miss Martin were pretty well occupied.” The words are out before he can stop them, and he shoves a cigarette into his mouth to shut himself up, lighting it defiantly with an eyebrow raised as Stiles watches him with a slow smile.

“Jealous much?” Stiles saunters closer until he’s right in front of Derek. The expression on his face is unreadable, and Derek looks away. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the redheaded type, not after the way you danced with Erica.”

Derek snorts in amusement at the thought. “You think I’m stupid enough to make a pass at Boyd’s girl? What kind of no-account fool do you take me for?” He shakes out his match and drops it to the ground, toeing it into the dirt with his shoe. “I’ve known Erica for years; she’s a friend of my younger sister.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide, then narrow, his mouth hanging open around the cigarette he’d produced from his own jacket pocket, his breath steaming in the light of the dance hall windows. _Is you is or is you ain’t my baby_ , Billie sings, the strands of the melody echoing into the darkness over the raucous laughter inside.

“Your younger sister… Cora _Hale_. Right? And that means…” Stiles’ eyes go wide, and he throws his head back to laugh, his neck long and lean and pale in the dim light. “Oh my _God_ , Laura Hale, the terror of the WAC, she’s…”

“My older sister, yes, and I’ll thank you not to call her a terror.” Derek scowls at Stiles as he wipes tears from his eyes.

“Oh, come on, you know she’d take it as a compliment. Which is how I meant it, for the record, Laura’s real swell, it’s only idiots like that good-for-nothing Daehler who don’t like smart broads. Christ,” he takes a drag, and Derek has to pull his eyes away from the way Stiles’ lips wrap around the butt, warm and pink and chapped from flying. “I don’t know how I missed it, you’ve all three got that terrifyingly attractive thing going for you, though,” he tips his head to the side musingly, “in your sisters’ case, it’s mostly just terrifying. Hah! I should’ve guessed from the start.”

Derek shrugs, still feeling sour, unsettled for reasons he doesn’t want to examine. “Not something I like to advertise, using my sisters to get on base.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a crack photographer. Can’t say I know how you write, but Argent wouldn’t let you on base if you weren’t good at what you do, wouldn’t matter whose brother you were.” Stiles scoffs, taking another drag.

Derek lifts his head in surprise. “You know my work?”

“Of course I do, numbskull.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “What do you think we do out here when we’re not on raids? Crochet?” He’s close enough now that he turns his head to blow his smoke out to the side rather than into Derek’s face, and he shoves a finger into Derek’s sternum, thumping it to make a point. “I know the work of everyone in your magazine, and yours is good. _Real_ good. You might’ve used your sisters to get your name on Argent’s desk, but your _work_ is what got you in.”

There’s a warm feeling in the bottom of Derek’s stomach, and Stiles’ face is altogether too close. He knows this feeling, has felt it too many times before, this fizziness in his solar plexus, this magnetism that he can feel pulling him toward the man in front of him with his dark eyes and slanted grin.

Derek takes a step back.

“Won’t Miss Martin be missing you?” he says, and shoves his smoke back between his lips to keep them busy.

Stiles laughs again. “Lydia? God, no. I adore her, but we’re not like that. We’re too much alike, and besides, I don’t think the good ladies of the WAC would appreciate one of us jacks encroaching on one of their own.” He laughs again, and cuts his eyes to Derek’s from underneath  his long lashes. “Anyway, I’m not so into carrottops. I like mine tall, dark, and broody.” He takes one last long drag, then throws his cigarette down, gives Derek a long and thorough once-over, and steps back into Derek’s space, pushing at Derek’s boundaries like inevitability, like a foregone conclusion. “C’mon, Hale,” he says, looking ever so slightly up at Derek from under his thick dark lashes, “the night’s young.”

He shouldn’t. He probably _really_ shouldn’t. But it’s as good an offer as he’s gotten in a long time, and he’s pretty sure he’s not misreading this. It won’t last, it _can’t_ last; not with Stiles here, and the war, and hell, they barely know each other, but damned if the chemistry between them couldn’t set a house on fire.

He holds out his hand and Stiles takes it, eyes twinkling merrily as Derek pulls him in and sets them moving, one hand holding Stiles’ long, calloused fingers, the other wrapping firmly around Stiles’ narrow waist. .

_ “Heaven…. I’m in heaven… and my beats so that I can barely speak…” _

“Pretty sure that’s meant to be ‘tall, dark, and handsome’,” he murmurs into the soft hairs behind Stiles’ ear.

“Eh,” Stiles shrugs and chuckles, “po-tay-toh, po-tah-to…,” so Derek leans in and shuts him up.

\--

The call comes in late in the afternoon. Derek’s been rattling around headquarters with Boyd as his babysitter while he photographs equipment, offices, and files, trying to get a feel for the grinding bureaucracy and interminable chores of war. Boyd’s enjoying it, Derek thinks, leaning up against the wall and swapping hair-raising stories about their younger sisters while Derek fiddles with his tripod and the angles of things. It’s another off day for Flight Five, but the sound of running footsteps comes echoing up the stairwell, and Boyd snaps upright while Derek fumbles his shot in surprise.

“Boyd, get out here.” It’s Lahey, his face tight. “There’s a U-boat near the Channel Islands, and it’s shot down a transport ship. The other flights are all over the continent, so the WAC girls are bringing over a couple Cansos so we can go fishing.”

Boyd’s already moving before Lahey finishes, and Derek scrambles to get his gear together, grabbing his tripod in one hand and his lens bag in the other as he clatters down the stairs behind them.

“Boyd, what’s a Canso?” He shouts as he jogs behind them to the barracks so Boyd can grab his gear.

“It’s a swimmer. An amphibious plane.” Boyd grabs his jacket and goggles and is out the door, Derek still hot on his heels, tripod abandoned on the floor, camera securely around his neck. “We can put it down and fish out any survivors, but it’s got guns, so they’re less likely to try and kill us off while we’re picking folks up.”

“Can I come?”

They’ve made it out to the tarmac, and Derek can see one plane landing, and another taxiing in, Miss Martin at the helm of the one just pulling up. She jumps out with a jaunty salute, her long red hair tucked smartly under her cap and her uniform impeccable, then steps back as Boyd dashes over with Lahey behind him. Boyd turns and looks him up and down as Daehler climbs into the plane, followed by the twins.

“I wouldn’t. If that U-boat’s still around, we might take some hits.”

“I don’t care.” Derek lifts his chin and steps forward. “This is important, to be able to see what you guys see, to report on what it’s really like.”

There are footsteps running up behind him, and Boyd looks over Derek’s shoulder and shrugs his shoulders.

“Ain’t coming with me. If you can talk McCall into it, that’s your business.” Boyd swings himself into the cockpit and starts the engine while the twins busy themselves closing up the door.

The second plane has pulled up right behind the first, and it must be Allison who jumps out, because McCall gives the dark-haired girl a swift kiss and a long smile, even as Dunbar, Whittemore, and Mahealani are climbing in. Derek wastes no time in running over, and gets as far as having his hands in the door before Stiles is right there in his face.

“Whoa, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m coming with you,” Derek says, deciding it’s better to assume permission than to ask for indulgence.

“Like hell you are. This is could be dangerous.”

Derek grits his teeth. “Yes. I know. And that’s why it’s important that I be there, to show what it is that you all are doing.”

Stiles throws up his hands in frustration. “Scott, get over here and deal with this.”

“Hey.” McCall’s head appears out of the cockpit window. “Derek, Stiles is right.” His face is open and sincere, his concern showing in his big brown eyes. “It might be fine, but it might not. We really don’t know what’s going on out there, other than that a transport’s been shot down by a sub. That could be the end of it, or we could be flying into a trap.”

“McCall, listen.” Derek spreads his hands palm up, trying to look as humble and trustworthy as he can. “This is important. I need to show what you guys are doing, even when, no, especially when it’s dangerous. I’m a grown man, I can take my own risks. Now please,” he makes his face as sincere as possible, “let me come.”

McCall holds his gaze for a minute, then kicks the engine into gear and shakes his head.

“Alright, Hale.” McCall nods his head, “do me a favor, and try not to get injured?.” The propellor begins its spiralling whir, and Derek throws himself into the belly of the plane, shuffling to get out from underfoot and ignoring the dirty looks from Whittemore as he hauls the door shut behind Derek. “You can stand in the left waist gunner blister, just… hang on.”

Derek nods, and grips the bars of the gunner apparatus as the plane picks up speed, shuddering into the air as they soar off southward to the sea.

\--

Boyd’s plane beats them to the site, and is laying down cover fire when they arrive.

_“Alpha One, Boyd says to take your bird on in. There’s two strafers giving us some trouble, but we can cover you.”_ Lahey’s voice is crackly over the radio, but Mahealani nods and picks up the comms. “Roger that, Beta. We got an estimate on how many fish we’re looking for?”

_“We picked one up before we started drawing fire, Alpha One. He says there should be three more. We’ve identified two of them; one’s by the wreck at your ten o’clock, the other’s not too far away, closer to your eleven._ ”

“Roger that.” Derek can see Stiles with his binoculars already marking the position of the downed airmen. “And the third?”

_ “Can’t find him, Alpha One.” _

“Roger, Beta.” McCall shakes his head at something Stiles says, and clicks the comms. “Beta Canso, you keep looking for number three while we grab these first two. Keep us posted. Over and out.”

_ “Roger, sir.” _

A rattle of gunfire cuts Lahey off, and McCall pulls the plane into a dive, leveling off abruptly as they come close to the surface of the water. Derek’s stomach drops with the descent, and he focuses on the calm blue of the horizon to settle his rolling stomach.

He’d noticed the buoys underneath the wings when they boarded, but he’d been too distracted by making sure he got on the plane to think about what the plane would be doing. “What the plane would be doing” is now all too uncomfortably clear to him, as it dawns on him that they will, in fact, be landing on the face of the deep itself, and pulling out survivors before the cold water claims them.

_While German planes shoot at us, of course_ , he thinks, because why stint on the reality of it when he’s having a sudden reality check.

“Jackson, Danny, grab the ropes. Hale…” McCall glances over his shoulder briefly, “grab the blankets from the base of the bow turret. If you’re going to be on board, you may as well be useful, and this water’s cold.”

\--

The first retrieval goes so smoothly that Derek starts to feel good about being out here, even with the repeated sound of artillery fire from above. McCall sets them gently down on the calm surface of the Channel, they open the top half of the door, enough for Mahealani to toss out a rescue ring attached to a rope. The pilot grabs it on his first try, pulling it down around his torso so he can be pulled close enough to get hands on him and be hauled into the plane. Derek hands him a blanket and Whittemore breaks out a flask to pour some whisky down the shivering man’s throat, and then they’re on to number two. Derek even manages to snap a couple of shots of the whole thing: an image of Mahealani and Whittemore backlit by the open door, another of them pulling the airman into the plane, a third of the man himself wrapped in a blanket and huddled on the floor, relief written all over his plain features.

The next one gets a little trickier. Stiles revs the propellers in intermediate bursts while McCall tries to steer them in the direction of the second man, because they’re close enough that taking off and landing again would use up a lot of precious time and fuel. Right as they’re getting close, though, there’s a much louder burst of machine gun fire that makes Dunbar go diving for the bow turret to fire off a couple rounds.

_“Sorry, Alpha One, we’ve got a little more company up here. You’re gonna want to wrap it up soon.”_ Boyd’s voice is grim over the comms, and Stiles scowls.

“We only just picked up our first guy. Do your jobs up there, and we’ll grab ‘em all. Buy us some time, Beta.”

_ “You want to trade, Stilinski? I’ll come play Go Fish, you come up here and get your ass shot at, how about that?” _

McCall gives a warning look at Stiles as he opens his mouth, and leans over to the comms himself.

“You’re doing great, Beta. We’ve almost got number two. Any lead on our third guy?”

_“No dice, Alpha One.”_ It’s Lahey again this time, sounding frustrated. _“We’ll keep looking.”_

“Roger that.”

“Hey, kill the props, Stiles!” Whittemore shouts. “I’ve got line of sight on number two here.”

“Line of sight’s great, dickhead. You gonna stare at his pretty face, or are you close enough to throw your ring?”

“I’ll throw you in, if you don’t shut your face, Stilinski. You wanna come back here, lean out the door and see how well you can swim?”

“Hey,” Mahealani raises his voice, “Jackson, throw the damn ring. He’s waving at us.”

Derek can’t tell if it’s because Stiles has gotten Whittemore riled up, or if it’s actually farther, and a harder angle to gauge, but this time it takes three throws before the airman can grab on to the rescue ring and start to be pulled toward the plane. Then, when he’s halfway there, he gets hit by a piece of floating debris and drops the ring, going under for a frantic moment before surfacing again several yards away.

“Oh, goddammit, would you just get in the plane already?” Whittemore grumbles through his teeth as he pulls the ring in and throws it a fourth time.

_“Hey Alpha One, we’ve got a glimpse of our third man. He’s on your six, maybe a hundred yards out.”_ Lahey pauses. _“He’s not looking good, though. He was waving a little bit, but now he’s stopped. Might’ve been hit by some of this gunfire, or got hurt when he fell.”_

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles mutters, flinging himself out of his seat and pressing past Derek with a warm hand on his chest to get to the ventral gun blister. “Sure enough, there he is. Dunbar, get back here, you’ll have to guide us as we back up.”

“Yessir,” Dunbar answers, and climbs over the first rescued man to get to the back, trading spots with Stiles as he climbs back toward the front.

The gunfire above is intensifying, Derek notes absently, preoccupied with focusing his viewfinder on Mahealani and Whittemore as they finally pull the second airman into the plane, Whittemore roughly toweling him off with another woolen blanket and handing him the flask while Mahealani shuts the door.

“Liam!” Stiles shouts, “Where we going?”

“Hard left, sir. Good, good, little more… ok, now keep it straight. More on the props, Stiles.”

_ “Alpha One, you got your guy yet? I’m not sure how long we can hold these fuckers off, and I mean that.” _

“Hang in there, Beta. We’ve got two, we’re going for three.”

“Two more bursts, Stiles. Scott, little to the left… there!”

Derek wonders at the note of uncertainty in Dunbar’s voice, and leans in as Mahealani and Whittemore open the door.

“Oh, shit.” Mahealani sucks air in over his teeth, and Derek mentally agrees. The airman isn’t too far out from their current position, maybe as close as the second man was, but he’s wrapped himself around a piece of his plane, and is clearly fading in and out of consciousness. He’s also got a large bloodstain on his collar just above his left arm, which is hanging limply into the water. “He’s not going to be able to hang on to the ring, even if we can get it over his head when we throw.”

“What? Oh, for the love of….” Stiles is up and out of his seat, shoving past Derek again as the top of their plane takes a hail of bullets.

“Beta, can you please take out whoever just trimmed our hair? We’re almost done down here.”

_“Working on it, Alpha One,”_ Boyd’s voice is tight and grumpy, punctuated by the sound of gunfire, _“working on it.”_

“Stiles, you idiot, you’re _not_ going to…” Mahealani’s  voice is incredulous, and Derek turns just in time to see Stiles yank off his pants and skivvies before hauling the rescue ring over his arm.

“Scott, be ready to go the _second_ I’m back in,” Stiles calls even as McCall half rises from his pilot’s seat, a look of horror on his face, “we’re gonna get this fucking show on the road.” And with that, he flings himself out the door in an impressively executed dive into the frigid water.

“Goddammit, Stiles, if you don’t die out there, I’m going to kill you my own self.” McCall looks furious, but Derek can see Stiles paddling strongly out to the wounded man. “Dunbar, man the bow turret, make sure no one takes a shot at him,” McCall barks. “Danny, up here with me. We need to take off the second they’re back on board. Hale, help Jackson pull them in.”

Mahealani’s face is pale, but he climbs into position in the co-pilot’s seat even as Dunbar rattles off several rounds from the turret. Derek finds himself hanging halfway out the door, watching with his heart in his teeth as Stiles makes his way around a piece of debris to the wounded man’s side. The water is sluicing off his tanned shoulders, his dark head gleaming like a seal’s in the grey light of day.

“C’mon, Stilinski, you’re a good-for-nothing asshole and I hate you, but damned if Jerry’s gonna get your sorry ass.” Whittemore’s got hold of the rope attached to Stiles’ ring, letting it spool through his hands, watching as Stiles pulls it off his arm and tries to shove it onto the pilot. On a sudden inspiration, Derek whips out his distance lens and snaps it on, using it to train in on Stiles’ face.

“The guy’s unconscious, but has his arm wedged into the debris,” he breathes. “Whittemore, start pulling. Stiles’s attached the ring to the debris and wants us to pull them in.”

“Always gotta do it the hard way, don’t you, Stilinski?” Whittemore mutters. “Alright, pretty boy, put that camera down and help me pull. We want to get them in fast.”

Derek does as instructed, handing his camera to the first rescuee and stepping up behind Whittemore to grab the rope.

“Okay, pull! And _pull_! And _again_ , keep pulling!”

“Alpha One, we’ve got two more planes coming in on the radar. I estimate we’ve got ninety seconds, tops, before we’ve got company we don’t want.”

“Roger that, Beta.”

“Goddammit, Stiles, you reckless son-of-a-bitch, get your ass back in this plane.” Whittemore is huffing between every word, and Derek is just breathless, pulling the rope hand over hand as fast as he can until the sound of Stiles’ voice reaches his ears. “That’s it, okay, Stiles, get his arm free.”

“I fucking _can’t_ , Jackson, or I would’ve before I made you haul me over here.” Stiles’ cheeks are flushed, but he’s shivering even as he bites back at Whittemore. “Here, I’m going to lift him up so you can grab him. We’ll just have to bring the piece with us.”

Stiles disappears under the water for a moment, and then the unconscious man is surging upward into Whittemore’s arms. Whittemore grabs him under the arms, grunting with the weight, but then hangs there in the door, trying to get the leverage to pull the man up.

“Jackson, fucking _pull him up!_ Get him out of the way so I can get in the goddamn plane!” Stiles voice is rough, and Derek leans forward to grab onto Jackson’s torso, hauling them both backwards in a burst of strength until they fall in a heap on the floor, the unconscious man and his piece of plane with them. “Jesus _Christ_ , it’s cold out there. I think my balls crawled into my stomach.”

“Stiles, you in? Cause we’re going.” There’s another round of shots across their bow, and then the plane is shuddering to life even as Stiles cranks the door shut.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, get this boat in the air already.” Stiles climbs over the pile of Derek, Whittemore, and the pilot, diving into the waist gunner blister opposite them in a flurry of pale limbs and bare ass cheeks. He grabs hold of the gunning apparatus and begins firing off shots as Derek untangles himself from Whittemore’s legs and reaches for his camera.

“Beta, we are up and out, cover our ass while we get airborne, and then we’re back to base.”

_ “About fucking time. Roger that, Alpha One.” _

The image in his camera is exquisite; a young man, bare ass to the world, backlit by the daylight as he mans the gunner blister in a rising plane. They’re heroes, Derek thinks, every single member of Flight Five, honest to God heroes, and all he can do is take the picture he sees.

“Hey,” Stilinski throws a look over his shoulder at Derek and twitches an eyebrow, “don’t judge. That water only melted yesterday.”

He winks, and Derek starts to laugh, and doesn’t stop till the sound of gun shots has faded into the distance and the sea below them gives way to land.


	4. Chapter 4

“Alright, Miss Martin. If you could state your name, rank, hometown, and then tell me a little bit about yourself?”

Lydia Martin smiles perfectly, the curls of her hair settling onto the lapels of her khaki jacket. Her lips are a deep crimson in spite of rationing, and her cap set at a jaunty angle.

“My name is Lydia Justine Martin, and I’m nineteen years of age. I’m a Staff Leader in the WAAC, and I’m Miss Allamakee County 1940, ‘41, and ‘42.”

Derek nods, the sound of his pencil echoing in the chilly office.

“And your family?”

“I have one older sister, Helena. She’s married to a man in the Marines, and has the most charming little boy, Robert. My mother is a school teacher in town; she went to college, and studied Literature. My father is the president of the bank.”

Derek lifts his head to glance at her. Well, she certainly carries herself like a rich girl, so her father’s no surprise, but most bank president’s wives don’t see a need to work outside the home, at least in his experience. Maybe her obvious drive comes honestly down the maternal line, he thinks.

“And how did you come to join the WAAC, Miss Martin?”

“Oh, well.” She dimples prettily, and folds her hands demurely in front of her. Her fingernails are unpainted, but perfectly shaped and shined. “My aunt learned how to fly planes in the 30s, and she used to take me up and show me how to handle the controls. I always did think it was just the most wonderful thing, just a real gas to get to steer over the fields and rivers.” She’s remarkable, Derek thinks, the way she performs even one-on-one as though an audience is just behind him, hanging on her every word. “So, when the war came, and all the boys went and enlisted and went off to fight, well, us girls had to do our part too, didn’t we? It’s no good to just sit around and wring our hands and wait for them all to come home. So I went right down as soon as I turned eighteen and signed up. Told them I could fly a plane and I was in good shape, because Miss Allamakees, we have to be fit, and they gave me a uniform and some training, and well, here I am!”

She spreads her hands and smiles, blinking her green eyes and shrugging her shoulders in practiced nonchalance.

“Here you are, indeed. Now, Miss Martin, it sounds like you barely needed training at all- what did you have to learn before they sent you over here?”

Lydia giggles and tosses her head. “Well, I might’ve known about how to fly a plane, but I didn’t know diddly about how to maintain or fix one. We spent some time in the factories with the gals back home, learning how they’re all put together and how to do the basic maintenance, all those things.” Her eyes flash, and Derek scribbles furiously. They’ve clearly hit her passion, and the readers back home are going to just love the beautiful young woman from the heartland and her devotion to planes. “We learned how to tune the engine, how to attach the propellers and gun mounts. How to flush the lines and adjust the brakes, gas and oil it all up, how to grease the flaps and check all of the controls. The ways that the altitude and the temperature can affect the different parts of the engine, and how the guns mount in the bombers, and…” she lifts a hand to her bosom, and Derek notes the pink in her cheeks. “Well, you’ll just have to excuse me, I get a little carried away. I just think it’s all so terribly exciting, being able to do my part to help stomp the Ratzies, if it’s not too unladylike to say so.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to object to you voicing that sentiment, Miss Martin, either here or back state-side.” Derek smiles at her, and watches as the mask of propriety slides back into place. “And do you have a young gentleman in the forces somewhere? Biding his time until he can come back to Iowa and see you again?”

Lydia dips her chin flirtatiously. “Well, not really, no. There’s a young man on base here from my hometown, Jackson Whittemore, and we used to go steady back in high school, and we see each other sometimes, but that’s all. I wish him all the best, of course, just like I wish all of our brave boys the best, so that we can win the war quickly, and everyone can go home.”

“Just as we all do, Miss Martin. Just as we all do.”  Derek makes a note in the margin, and checks off two of his questions. “One last question, if you don’t mind?”

“Why, go right ahead, Mr. Hale.”

“What’s in store for Miss Lydia Justine Martin when she returns to Allamakee County, whenever that may be?”

“Well.” Lydia tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. “College, of course. I haven’t decided whether I’ll be applying to Cornell or Berkeley just yet, but I plan to do my graduate studies at Harvard.”

“That’s quite a plan, Miss Martin. And what will you be studying? Literature, like your mother?”

“Not at all, Mr. Hale.” Lydia leans forward, her green eyes sparkling. “I’ll be studying Math.”

\--

“Alright, you remember what I told you to watch for?”

Stiles’ face is unusually serious, but it makes sense when Derek thinks about it; Stiles may come across as cavalier and reckless about many things, but the very fact that he’s still alive means that he must have laser focus and quick responses in the moment, along with a whole hell of a lot of good luck.

“Yes, this one…” Derek lays his finger on the dial on the right, “I’m supposed to tell you if it drops below three.”

“Yes, and?”

“And this one here’s the compass, so I need to watch it, and make sure that we’re going in the direction coming through the radio.”

“Good. And the last?”

“If anything turns red or starts flashing, tell you immediately.”

“Yep!” Stiles claps him on the shoulder and hauls the straps of the safety harness over Derek’s head. “There’s a little baggie under your seat, but fair warning, I’m gonna find you a lot less attractive if you spew.” He grins and disappears from view, making his way under the nose of the plane to climb up the side to take the pilot’s seat. Derek studiously does not think about what he had for breakfast, or what it would look like coming up.

“Ready?” Derek must look a little pale, because Stiles drops his smirk for a minute, and leans over to place his hand on Derek’s knee. “Hey, listen. You did fine in the bigger planes. Just because this one’s little doesn’t mean it isn’t safe.” He pats Derek reassuringly. “Besides, these planes are designed to be operable by one pilot, because you never know when you’re suddenly going to be down to just one. So don’t worry, just keep your eyes on those gauges I showed you, and we’re golden.” He smiles winningly at Derek, his eyes dancing.

“That’s only _somewhat_ comforting,” Derek mutters, but he pulls his borrowed headgear down snugly and tightens his belt.

_“Locked and loaded, Alpha Two?”_ Scott’s voice through the radio in front of him makes him jump, but Stiles just grins and toggles a switch.

“Roger that, Alpha One. Locked, loaded, and ready to go!”

A flurry of confirmations comes down the line from the other planes, voices he barely recognizes in a static-y cacophony.

“It’s just a fly-over,” Stiles says, and his eyes are golden in the sunlight. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”

\--

They haven’t got more than half a dozen miles out over the Channel when there’s a crackle of static over the radio that has Stiles blanching and gripping his controls.

_“Surprise attack, radioed in from our boys on the water, all pilots brace for pursuit.”_ Scott’s tone sounds tight, but calm. _“Standard formation.”_

“What’s happening?” Derek’s proud of himself that he keeps his question even, his fingers flat on his knees.

“They’re not supposed to be here. It’s just some impressively shitty luck,” Stiles bites out, busily flipping switches and gliding them up to where Derek can see the rest of the planes in a tight three-dimensional diamond formation. “We were just supposed to make a quick run over to Nantes, drop some bombs on a U-boat factory, and then split back to British air-space, but we’ve barely left British air-space. The fuckin’ Krauts are _not_ supposed to be right here.”

_ “Isaac, hold steady. Coming up on your left.” _

_ “How many, boss?” _

_ “Can’t tell yet. My radar says five. Boyd, radio down to base, have them scramble some RAF up here.” _

“Wouldn’t have brought you up if I’d thought for a second this’d happen,” Stiles mutters, then reaches over and grabs Derek’s hand. “Here, you’re gonna have to shoot. See this? That’s the handles, take it in both hands.” Derek feels lightheaded, but he grips the U-shaped handle under his palms and concentrates on breathing slowly and deeply. “The triggers are just under your fingers, and the sights are right there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now, we have plenty of ammo, so, don’t just spray it all around, but don’t worry about wasting it, either. If you see Jerry in your sights, you shoot, got it?”

“Yes. Got it.” The press of Stiles’ fingers on his is warm, grounding, and Derek focuses on the sensation of skin on skin, of one living being pressing a touch to another.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?” Derek looks over finally, straight into Stiles’ incredible eyes, amber and flame in the morning sun that illuminates the cockpit. “We’re gonna live.” Stiles’ jaw is set and his features stern. “You understand me? I am going to put you back on the ground, and we are going to walk away from this, so help me God. So you just shoot that goddamn gun, and leave the rest to me.”

_ “Stiles, on your tail, do you copy?” _

“Roger that, Alpha.” Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for a second longer, then winks. “Hold on tight,” he says calmly, and then the bottom falls out of everything as he drops them into a tight, spiralling roll.

\--

The next extended space of time is a special kind of hell that Derek hopes never, ever to repeat in his life. The first barrel roll leaves him reeling, and it’s only when Stiles shouts “Shoot, Derek, _shoot_!!” that Derek remembers the gun controls in his hands and begins to fire off rounds at the enemy plane in front of them. He somehow manages to hit them several times,  and they go down, dropping from the line of sight toward the glittering ocean below, and then he’s firing again as another plane takes the place of the first.

Stiles, as it turns out, is a flying ace. Derek may be a little biased, but he doesn’t think it’s much, because they are turning and dipping and diving as Stiles grips the controls with a single-minded determination, rising from the clouds to hammer an enemy fighter as it closes in on Boyd’s left flank, then peeling away and up as yet more planes appear beneath them, machine gun fire strafing toward their underbelly. The German planes are so close that Derek can catch glimpses of the pilots themselves, a flash of blond hair, an impression of a colored scarf, before they’re past, and he’s shooting again as they dive. He can see the lines of holes that his bullets make through the wings, through the metal siding of a fuselage, watches in mingled amazement and horror as a round from another plane hits the engine of the plane in front of him, sparking a sudden fire that leaps up around the cockpit, the plane starting to fall even as the pilot bails out. He doesn’t see what happens, they’re already moving on, rising above the relentless machine gun fire to get a quick lay of the land as Scott’s voice through the radio shouts instructions to _move, move, look out behind you, goddamn, how many of these fuckers are there?_

It’s not that they don’t take damage; they do, quite a bit of it, bullets strafing through the wings, and a sudden splintering of plexiglass that has Stiles hissing out through his teeth; it’s that they take far less damage than they inflict, even with Derek’s minimal gunnery skills, that makes the extent of Stiles’ skills clear. All around them the German planes are taking hits, swarming in and then away, the wounded planes dropping off and falling back to limp home to the Fatherland, others plunging in a fiery storm while their brethren buzz Flight Five’s tightly locked maneuvers.

The radio is a constant crackle of voices and directions, and Derek quickly gives up keeping any conscious track of the warnings and instructions, focusing with tunnel vision on shooting any craft bearing the telltale crosses until they either fly away, or start to shoot flames, dropping suddenly in a doomed embrace with gravity and internal combustion.

He won’t be able to say later how long it lasts; it must only be half an hour at the outside, he thinks rationally, but it feels like _days_ , hours at the very least, before he sees a bank of planes rising toward them, distinctive roundels painted on their wings. The RAF rise up to their defense shooting fast and hard at the tender underbellies of the remaining German planes, wreaking havoc on the Luftwaffe line, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to see a sight, so goddamn relieved to his very marrow, in his entire short life.

“That’s the stuff, Tommy,” Stiles mutters under his breath, “get ‘em where it fucking hurts,” and Derek can see the lines of tension in his young face as he stares through the cracked windscreen, “give ‘em hell.”

_“Alright up there, Flight Five?”_ comes the voice of the British wing leader across the radio, and Stiles takes a deep breath, wincing in a way that worries Derek.

_“Looking better now you’re here, thanks.”_ Scott’s voice is full of relief. _“Nice job, men. Turn it around and let’s head back to…. Jackson, pull up,_ pull up _, there’s one right below you!”_

There’s the sudden sharp sound of gunfire and cursing down the line, and Stiles drops them abruptly and pulls them around hard, sending Derek’s stomach to settle against the back of his teeth, but they come about too late. The dizzying spiral of clouds gives way to the sound of an explosion and the sight of a plane that goes cork-screwing down in a torrent of flames, spiraling out of control as it plummets to the water below.

Derek can’t tell which plane it is until he hears Boyd’s furious voice through the radio, accompanied by a staccato rattle of shots and another tremendous boom, this one rippling through the air just above them, and making Stiles swear profusely as he tries to dodge the rain of shrapnel.

_ “Got the son of a bitch, boss.” _

_“Good work, Boyd.”_ Scott’s a professional, but anyone could read the dejection in his words from a mile away, and Derek stares down at the shining water in absolute horrified shock, no trace of either plane marring its perfect surface. _“Pack it in boys. Let’s head back.”_

\--

The rest of the flight is eerily serene, the late morning sun shining cheerily down on them as they limp back to the base. Isaac’s plane is in the worst shape, so he lands first, bouncing shakily down the runway to a half-cocked stop near the end. The rest of them get down in short order, one after another, paint jobs polka dotted with bullet holes, propellers slowing to a blurred crawl.

Stiles lands them last, sets them down light as a feather and taxis them to a stop at the end of the line. He turns off the plane and sits in absolute silence for a long moment before pulling a hand over his eyes and exhaling hard. Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t know what to do, can’t think of a thing to say before Stiles shakes himself hard, snaps off his harness, and pops open the plane door, jumping down to the tarmac without a glance behind him. It’s only after he’s left that Derek notices the red stain on the shoulder of the seat where Stiles had been sitting, and swallows hard against the fear that rises in his gut and the memory of the sun on that shining plane as it fell.

Derek gets himself untangled from his belt with shaking fingers, climbs out of the plane on weak legs, and makes it all the way behind one of the barracks before he loses the entire contents of his stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a bad time to have to do it, he knows, but there’s no helping it. He needs to finish up his interviews. It’s already Sunday afternoon, and he’s running out of time.

Boyd meets him in the empty Mess Hall, and Derek is silently and pettily grateful that his interviewee today is probably the most even-keeled and stoic out of the group he’s met. Boyd presumably must be feeling _something_ regarding Jackson’s loss, but he’s a consummate professional, settling himself down across from Derek and nodding solemnly at him to begin.

“Can you please state your name, rank, and where you’re from for the record?”

“Vernon Milton Boyd IV, Second Lieutenant, from Urbana, Illinois.”

“And tell me a little about your family?”

“Sure.” Boyd leans back, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m the oldest. Got three younger than me: my brother James, and my two little sisters Alicia and Marlene.” Boyd’s face softens as he says their names, and Derek pictures two little girls with Boyd’s face, dressed in lace blouses with bows in their hair. “My pa’s an accountant, and a good one, too. His father was before him, so the business has been in the family for a couple decades,” he says, his expression quietly pleased. “My mother taught high school till the war broke out, then she went and got her nurse’s certificate because she wanted to contribute to the effort. My little sisters are junior nurses in training; Alicia’s going to be seventeen in a couple months, and start her certification program, too.”

“You must be a proud older brother.”

Boyd smiles, his dark face crinkling up to show his perfect white teeth. “Well, James is a bit of a juvie, but Alicia and Marley, they’re going to do alright for themselves.”

“And what brought you to the USAAF, Boyd?”

Boyd shrugs, lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t like walking a lot, and I get seasick.”

Derek laughs, can’t help it, and is rewarded by the corner of Boyd’s mouth twitching up.

“Anyone special waiting for you back home?”

“Nah,” Boyd smiles, “You know Erica’s got my heart in her manicured little talons. She’s a firecracker, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

“Understood.” Derek shivers. “I wouldn’t cross her either, if I were you.”

Boyd just smiles. “We understand each other.”

“And may it bring you both great happiness.” Derek shakes his head, and turns back to his notepad, chewing his lip before he continues. “Now, forgive me if this is insensitive, but I hope you’ll understand that I have to ask.” He takes a deep breath. “Earlier today your wing lost a fighter in action. What’s that like for you, both to lose someone you work with, day in and day out, and also to think that, the next time, it might be you?”

Boyd nods, his face composed.

“Well, I won’t lie to you and say that Jackson and I were close. We never were. He irritated me, if I’m being honest, and I don’t think he ever was fond of me, neither. But…” he takes a breath, “but when you’re up there, with nothing between you and the great beyond but a few thin sheets of metal and the skills of the men around you, it doesn’t matter what you think of them personally. All that matters is that you come home in one piece.

“And often, you don’t. Jackson is not the first fighter we’ve lost, not by a long shot, and he sure won’t be the last, not unless the war ends tomorrow. It’s hard, of course it is. Honestly, I try not to think about how it could be me.” He pauses, looks Derek in the eye, holds his gaze. “When we sign up, before we ship out, they make us write our wills. That’s how likely we are to die up there. And we have to get our wills notarized by three other fliers.

“You know how many of the men who witnessed my will are still alive?”

Derek shakes his head.

“None.” Boyd’s voice is deep and still, unwavering in the face of the odds. “Will I die tomorrow? Maybe. Maybe not. Will we be sorry for Jackson’s loss? Of course we will, some more than others, sure, but we’ll all miss him in our own ways. But,” his hands curl into fists on the table, “we’ve got a job to do. And damned,” his eyes flash, “if I’m not going to see it through to the bitter end.”

\--

He tells himself that he’s giving Stiles some time, giving all of them as much time and space as he can to come to grips with the idea that they’ll never see Jackson Whittemore again. It’s not their first loss, he knows, but he can’t imagine but that it still stings, still is shocking, every time that they go out, and someone doesn’t come back again.

He doesn’t know how to speak to that, his old trouble with words tying his tongue, holding in what he would express, if only he knew how. It’s not only that, though- it’s also the roiling guilt in his stomach that these men go out, every day, and risk their lives, and what does he do? He huddles in the middle of the plane, and takes pretty pictures, which he will go home and sell, making a tidy profit off of the doomed lives of these young men.

And, in truth, it’s also this: Derek is selfishly, secretly, glad that it was not Stiles, and the guilt of it settles in his gut like a stone, weighs him down from going to Stiles, because he knows it would not be welcome.

He can’t stop picturing it in his mind; the burst of anti-aircraft fire, the wings of Jackson’s plane riddled with holes, the engine catching fire. Maybe a wing pulling off, he couldn’t see well enough to tell in the moment quite how it happened. He sees it fall, sees the sudden burst of flame, the cloud of smoke. He imagines the heat of the flames, the weightlessness of the plunge toward the shimmering water’s face. Was Jackson already dead, he wonders, when he hit? Or did he drown?

He imagines, for a moment, that it was Stiles who fell like a bird from the sky, and doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the salt on his tongue.

\--

He stands outside for a long time, unable and unwilling to go back to the barracks, to face the others in their moment of loss. He waits for hours, smoking cigarette after cigarette, letting the smoke pool in his lungs, letting the nicotine race through his veins until he’s punchdrunk and a little sick.

The moon is high when he finally turns to go in, pale and distant in the sky. He makes it most of the way back to the building when he’s distracted by the light crunch of a boot on gravel, and a dark shape moving in the shadows. The shape is moving away from him, toward the planes, and without thinking, Derek follows it silently, creeping up behind it just as it bursts into the open and grabbing it from behind with a hand over its mouth.

Stiles bites him on the hand, hard, and Derek drops his hold and swears.

“ _Fuck’s sake_ , keep it down,” Stiles hisses at him angrily. “You want to wake everyone up? What the hell are you even _doing_ out here?”

“I could ask you the same fucking thing,” Derek whispers angrily back. “I’m pretty goddamn sure that whatever it is, it’s not something anyone else would approve of, or you wouldn’t be telling me to keep my fucking voice down.”

“You lousy son-of-a-bitch,” Stiles shoves him in the chest, hard, and Derek lets himself be pushed backward, “what are you gonna do about it? Huh? What are you gonna..”

Derek grabs Stiles’ fists and pulls him in, wrapping his arms around him and Stiles falls apart, shaking silently into the front of Derek’s coat. “God,” he gasps, “I didn’t even like the fucker, but I just…”

Stiles is still shuddering in Derek’s grip, his breath coming harsh and fast as Derek brings up a hand to rub firmly at his back.

“Hey,” he whispers, finding Stiles ear and pressing their cheeks together, “hey, breathe. C’mon, take a deep breath for me, nice and slow.”

Stiles draws in a breath and holds it, his body still shaking as he lets it out slowly. “Good,” Derek says, and presses his lips behind Stiles’ ear, not letting his grip falter. "Another.” Stiles obeys, his muscles starting to relax where he’s pressed up against Derek’s front.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Stiles says finally, pulling back a bit with an embarrassed look on his face, “I haven’t had one like that in years. God,” he pulls a shaky hand through his hair, “I guess it’s just been a while since we’d lost someone who’d been flying with us since the beginning.”

“He died a hero,” Derek says, and hates himself for how it comes out pinched and wrong. “It’s meaningful, what he did,” he tries again.

Stiles frowns. “Yeah, I’m sure a hero’s death will comfort his mother,” he says bitterly, and kicks a loose rock with his boot tip, still huddling close to Derek, but carefully not touching. “He’s still dead.”

Derek blows out a harsh breath, and shakes his head.

“You don’t _get_ it, Stiles,” he says angrily, “I don’t know if you’re too much of a cynic, or just too pig-headed, but what Jackson did, what you all are doing, what you” he grabs Stiles by the arm, “are doing every _goddamn_ day, that’s heroism. You are,” he laughs, “ _literally_ saving the world, do you get that? God.” He lets his hand fall from Stiles’ elbow, turns his body away. “You’re unbelievable, all of you. And you don’t even see it.”

“Hey.” Stiles voice is sharp, and he’s there in front of Derek, pushing into his space, crowding Derek back against the building. “Hey, asshole, you’re valuable too.”

Derek laughs, hard and clear. “Yeah. I take pictures.”

“No, you _idiot_.” Stiles’s hands are waving in the air, his face open and eyes wide as he gestures. “God, Derek, first of all, just… you went into a goddamn firefight with us, not once, no, but _twice_ , Derek. Do you know how many civilians do that? Fucking…” he waves his hands, “fucking _none_ of them, Derek, because you are a stupidly brave man. _We_ ,” he thumps his chest, “we signed up for this noble, heroic shit. This is our job; we get sent to jail if we don’t do it, but you climbed into a bomber like it was nothing, and then shot a goddamn machine gun at the Krauts like you’d done it three times before breakfast.”

Derek opens his mouth to protest, but Stiles cuts him off before he can finish drawing his breath.

“And you know what,, what you do? Your ‘pictures’? You don’t even know what that means. _God_ ,” Stiles drops his voice and leans in, “you show what’s _happening_. You show our families and our friends back home what we’re doing. You are documenting us like we’re someone _real_ , like we’re important as individual humans, not like we’re so many bullets to shoot at an enemy, not like we’re cannon fodder to be used up and replaced with the next warm body, _Derek_ ,” he steps closer and winds the fingers of both his hands into Derek’s own, his face next to Derek’s face, whispering close between them. “When this is all done- when the war is ended, and we’re all gone- it’s what you’ve done that will remain. In a hundred years, people will look at your pictures, and Jackson will still be alive. _Your_ words, _your_ telling of his story, of how he helped save those airmen from drowning, of how he saved his brothers even at the cost of his own life…” Stiles trails off for a moment, swallowing hard, “that’s what matters.”

Silence falls between them, Derek’s throat closed with emotion as he clutches at Stiles’ fingers with both hands.

“Stiles, I…” he finally manages, but Stiles lifts his face and holds his gaze.

“Don’t say it, Derek. Just… don’t.” Stiles’ eyes are hooded, no light reflecting in their depths. “In another time, in another place…” he sighs, and Derek’s heart breaks. “We could’ve really been something, you know that?” Stiles’ smile is as lopsided as always, and full of loneliness.

Derek lifts a hand to cradle Stiles’ cheek, his thumb tracing over the bow of his mouth. “When the war is over…” Stiles starts to shake his head, but Derek lays a finger across his lips. “Listen, you have to live through this, Stiles,” his breath catches in his throat, “you _have_ to. Promise me.”

Stiles face is the saddest thing Derek’s ever seen, and he refuses to blink as he feels a warm wetness slide down his cheek.

“You know I can’t, Derek.” Stiles’ voice is a whisper so faint he can barely hear it. “You know what it’s like, you’ve seen it yourself.”

“No,” Derek shakes his head stubbornly, “ _No_ , I don’t care. I won’t lose you. _Promise me_.”

Stiles gazes at him for a long, long moment, then takes Derek’s face in his hands, kissing his eyes, his forehead, his mouth, lingering before pulling back, his eyes as dark and unfathomable as the sea.

“I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

“If you could tell me your name, rank, and hometown, we’ll get started.” Derek fidgets with his notebook to avoid having to look at the face of the man across from him. He can hear Stiles settling onto the bench, see his long fingers tap on the table.

“Czcibór Stilinski, First Lieutenant, second in command of Flight Five. Hometown is Beacon Hills, California.”

“.... _what_ Stilinski?” Derek looks up involuntarily to meet Stiles’ unamused gaze.

“Czcibór. C-Z-C-I-B-O-R. It’s Polish, it was my grandfather’s, and no, it’s _not_ that hard to say.”

Derek holds up a hand in the face of Stiles’ vehemence. “Whoa, whoa. I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to; everyone else beat you to it.” The smile that twists Stiles’ lips doesn’t make it to his eyes, and Derek ducks his head again, focusing on the strokes his freshly sharpened pencil leaves across his paper.

“Tell me a little about your family.”

Stiles sighs, and Derek wishes desperately that he could interpret it. He has no fucking clue where they are right now, what they’re doing. He feels subsumed in feelings with no mooring, obsessed and consumed with every moment he spends with Stiles. He’s leaving in a day, and he can’t even picture what he’ll do without Stiles to orient himself toward, is trying desperately not to think about how he will be boarding a plane and walking the other way.

“I’m an only child. My parents wanted more, but it never happened for them, and then my mother died when I was eight.” There’s a remembered sadness in Stiles’ voice, and Derek wants to reach out and touch his hand, but he bites his lip instead. “My dad never remarried, but Scott lived next door to us, and his mom helped raise me. She’s a second mother to me, at this point, and Scott’s been like my brother since we were four.”

“And what does your father do?”

“He’s the sheriff of Beacon County. Fought in the Great War, 34th Infantry.”

“What did he think when you enlisted?”

Stiles chuckles. “Well, I think he despaired a bit. I was always in trouble as a kid; couldn’t keep my hands to myself, couldn’t mind my own business. I broke half my bones climbing on things I shouldn’t, and caused no end of grief to him and Mrs. McCall. So I think he could only imagine the damage I could do once I got my hands on a plane.” Derek chances a glance up, and Stiles’ eyes are far away. “He was proud, though, in the end. When Scott and I came back from training in our uniforms, I’ve never seen him so proud of anything I’ve done. It was the first time he saw me as my own man, the first time he shook my hand.”

“How is it, knowing the odds against you, knowing you’re your parents only child?”

“Christ, Derek, it’s awful, of course it is. I don’t fucking _want_ to die, none of us do.” Derek chews his lip, scratches on his notepad. He can see Stiles’ hands gesturing in the air in front of him. “We have to survive twenty five runs before we can go on furlough. You know what we average, overall? USAAF pilots?”

“What?” The word sticks in his throat, and Derek coughs into his sleeve.

“Fourteen. Fucking _fourteen_ flights before we’re downed like Jackson, parachuting out to get captured by the Krauts and thrown in a POW camp to rot if we’re lucky, getting the flaming express to St. Peter if we’re not.” Stiles stills for a moment, breathing hard. “Do you know how many times I’ve been on furlough?”

“How many?” It’s a whisper this time, his tongue sticking to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.

“Twice.” Stiles lets out a gusty breath, deflating into stillness. “Scott’s been three times. It’s ridiculous, it’s impossible. There is no goddamn way that we’re both going to survive this war, let alone the rest of the flight. The odds are too high and there’s too much time left.”

“You don’t know…”

“ _Don’t_ tell me what I do and don’t know. I _know_ ,” Stiles thumps his chest, eyes flashing as he leans across the table into Derek’s space. “I know. We haven’t even begun the invasion of the continent yet. This war isn’t even close to done, and every member of my flight is going to die, except maybe one.” Stiles exhales abruptly deflating and falling in on himself. “I’m sorry, Derek. I just… sometimes it all catches up with me at once, this thing,” he gestures limply with a hand, “this thing we’re all doing here.”

Derek catches Stiles’ eyes with his own, and drops any pretense of taking notes. He just watches him, trying to memorize every inch of him, trying to turn his photographer’s eye to capturing the light and shadow, the plane and curve and angle of Stiles’ face, his head, his shoulders and arms.

Stiles smiles sadly, reaches across the table to thread their fingers together. “I made you a promise. It’s even the same one I made my dad, and Melissa McCall. And you have to know, Derek,” Stiles squeezes Derek’s fingers till they hurt, then catches himself and relaxes his grip minutely, “you have to know that I will try my damnedest to keep it. But…” He blinks, tightens his grip on Derek’s hand again. “I’m afraid that good thoughts and good words and promises are not enough to save my sorry ass. If that were all it took, every single one of us would make it through unharmed, and so would every single fighter on the other side. No,.” His eyes are huge and sad, his face abruptly that of a young and scared man, the visage of cocky weariness suddenly gone. “I’ll do everything I can to come back safe, Derek. But I don’t know that it’s going to be up to me.”

\--

When the time comes, Derek packs in fifteen minutes, then breaks out his paper and pen. He throws away half a dozen notes, ripping them into tiny pieces and throwing them into the wood stove before he finally settles  on the last one, which he scribbles out in a hurry.

_ “Stiles- _

_ My publisher will have my address. When this war is over, come and find me. _

_ Yours, _

_D. Hale”_

Scott comes back as he’s folding it up, and Derek hands it wordlessly to him.

“For Stiles?” Scott asks with a sad smile, and Derek nods, not trusting his voice to speak. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“Thanks,” Derek manages, then busies himself with his things until Greenberg knocks timidly at the barracks door.

\--

He spends Christmas and New Years in California at his parents’ house, heartsick and plagued with nightmares and insomnia, but also writing. He flies back to New York on the second, article and photographs in hand.

The piece is a rousing success across the board; his bosses love it, the head honchos love it, the public loves it. His pictures of the men, in particular, get rave reviews. His picture of Boyd in the cockpit gets turned into a recruiting poster, and one of Scott ends up on the cover of the edition his article is published in. His writing is praised as intimate, but economical, neither dramatizing nor glossing over the difficulty and suffering of the war, but it’s the images he’s captured that seize the public imagination.

There are two images he never shares. The first is the picture snapped right after Stiles had climbed out of the English Channel, dripping wet and covered in goosebumps, naked as the day he was born and manning a machine gun as the plane took off. His face is turned away, and Derek could release it, he supposes- it would certainly grab the public imagination. But it feels wrong, intrusive, so he keeps the print clipped into the back page of his journal.

The other is utterly conventional, but Derek thinks it’s the most beautiful photo he’s ever taken. Stiles is in the cockpit of the B-17 F, the afternoon sun lighting the glass behind him like a halo. He’s laughing at something Scott said, his eyes crinkled up and his mouth flung wide open and head tipped back, unconscious of being watched and momentarily free of care.

This one lives under his pillow.

The magazine sends him back to England through the summer to be their foreign correspondent based out of London, and Derek is relieved. He doesn’t know how to live in America right now, so far from the action, where even though the effects are real, there are no bombs, no planes, only letters that come and then don’t, blue and gold stars, and never-ending work. He goes back to England and covers D-Day with his heart in his throat and his mind in the sky, hoping against hope to hear from Stiles.

It doesn’t happen. He’s transferred out to the Pacific front by September, spends Christmas of 1944 in the Philippines and the following spring moving from Burma to Formosa to Okinawa, following the Navy and their bombs. He’s in Indonesia when the bombs are dropped on Japan, and the Emperor gives his unconditional surrender, and goes outside that night to lie on his back and look at the stars.

His photos become crumpled and worn around the edges. He takes them out at night and looks at them, comparing them to the images he holds safe in his head. Time is erasing the details of Stiles face; the pattern of the moles on his cheeks, the exact shape of the end of his nose. Derek can still hear his voice, wakes sometimes in the night to the sound of Stiles’ laugh, but it’s never real, of course, he’s never there.

He thinks Stiles must be dead. The odds against him were too high, and Derek has seen too many good young men die now, crushed into the beaches and jungles and drowned at sea. He can barely remember Stiles’ scent now, and it makes him cry silently in the dark, trying to remember the exact hue of those amber-warm eyes.

He goes home after the war ends, and it feels like an anti-climax. There’s so much destruction, in so many places. Rebuilding will take a decade in the places that decide to even bother with it. Other places he knows will simply be abandoned to the ravages of time, leaving the dead to keep watch over the dead and nature to consume the evidence of mankind’s folly.

He takes his money from the royalties on his stories and buys a small house upstate. His editor calls him once a week, begging him to come back, and Derek says he’ll think about it, but really he means ‘no’, and they both know it. Still, he pretends, for everyone’s sake. He’ll be ok, he says, it’s all just temporary, he repeats. He just needs some time.

Christmas 1945 comes and goes, and the snow is thick on the ground around his house. He didn’t grow up with snow, and he loves it; loves chopping wood for his stove, loves shoveling his walk, loves the freezing clarity of the night sky. The cold is purifying, scraping away the remembered sweat and blood and stick of the tropics, the dust and dirt of Europe. Here on his own little patch of earth he can do penance through honest toil, can re-find his own body and piece together the remaining fragments of his soul.

He’s turning into a hermit, Laura says. He’s let his beard grow, bought some flannel shirts and a pair of overalls down at the local feed store. He strokes his beard and smiles. He likes it.

New Years Eve comes and goes as well, the fireworks from town bursting into the night sky, the colors beautiful, but the sounds too much like artillery fire, like bombs, so he goes to bed before they’re done, puts his head under his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s boiling water for coffee in the afternoon on the third, the coldest day yet of the new year when someone knocks on his door. He turns off the burner on the stove, wipes his hands on the dishtowel he’s tucked into his belt, and goes to answer the door.

“How can I help…”

The words trail off into nothing as he takes in the sight of the man on his front step.

Stiles is haggard, too skinny and shivering. He’s got a jagged scar that slices from near the top of his forehead down across his right eye and onto his cheek. His clothes are worn, old-fashioned, and he has a small rucksack thrown over his shoulder. His smile is faint, and afraid. The afternoon sun lights him up from behind, like a halo, like a memory, like a dream.

“Um. Hi. I didn’t know if you’d be here, or even if…” Stiles ducks his head for a second, then squints up at Derek, scratching his thin fingers at a mole on his cheek. “...or even if you’d meant those things in your letter, but I thought I’d come check, you know, just in case…I… Derek?”

The sound of his name jolts Derek out of stupor. He steps forward out of his opened door, sinks to his knees and wraps his arms around Stiles’ thighs. He buries his face in Stiles’ too thin belly, and begins, quietly, to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have scrolled down to see who dies: it's Jackson. But it's a heroic death!


End file.
